


from my own true love (lost at sea)

by sensira



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Golden Age of Piracy, Implied Sexual Content, Inspired by Pirates of the Caribbean, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28125816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensira/pseuds/sensira
Summary: "The sea," Theon says, throwing his arms up against the ocean breeze. "Is the land of ten-thousand kings."Robb rolls his eyes and considers the merits of throwing himself overboard. "Tell that to Robert Baratheon."City guard Robb Stark has a chance encounter with a dashing young pirate, is kidnapped and held for ransom, learns to sail, and falls in love. More or less in that order.
Relationships: Dagmer Cleftjaw & Theon Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Comments: 50
Kudos: 63





	1. i. prelude

Let your body sink like honey through the hot granular fingers of summer.

-Kenneth Rexroth, excerpt of _When We With Sappho_

Robb doesn’t usually talk to the prisoners.

It’s a hot day in King’s Landing—all days are, in truth. His cravat is soaked through with sweat and plastered to the damp skin of his neck. Robb’s royal gold tailcoat sticks uncomfortably against his back and the unpleasant feeling makes him miss Winterfell and its summer snows. The clean, sharp air and freezing fog. You could wear layers of wool and fur and never break a sweat.

The air is different here, hot and humid and heavy with the stench of the city. King’s Landing reeks of sewage and sweat, fish rotting in the heat, undercut by salt and brine. To say that Robb despises the place would be too strong a word—there are opportunities here, good ones. His family has come into good fortune since King Robert elevated his father to Hand and left him to govern the city in his absence. Arya has her dancing lessons. Bran spends half his days scaling the towers of the Red Keep and the other half serving as a squire for Lord Renly. Sansa has fine silks, romantic stories, and a growing circle of noble ladies to pass her time with. Even Father, ill-suited to the south, has taken the transition with noble grace.

Robb finds the city boring, all the days blurring together from the heat and haze. Not even his position in the city watch has broken the monotony.

Jon had been bored here too, Robb remembers, but he doesn’t like to think about Jon.

The dim, stone hallways of the prison offer a mild respite from the summer sun. There’s a small window that casts a strip of sunlight onto the floor, but otherwise the hall is dark with shadow. Today, Robb is the only guard at his post. Only one prisoner remains in this block of cells, the rest had been sent to the gallows this morning, escorted by the bulk of the goldcloaks.

The remaining prisoner is a pirate of some notoriety, or so the other guards say. He does not look it, Robb thinks. The man is old, hair brittle and the color of a fresh Winterfell snow. He spends his days dozing off, or resolutely staring at the grooves in the stone, hunched into himself. It’s hard to imagine someone so small and quiet as dangerous, but regardless, the man has been set aside, not destined for the gallows, but for the sharp edge of a sword.

Robb doesn’t usually talk to the prisoners, but this one is to be cut down by his father’s sword, and so it feels right to at least learn his name.

In the shadow of his cell, the prisoner clutches an empty iron cup, absentmindedly running a finger around the rim. Each prisoner gets one filled with water for the morning and evening meal. Robb shuffles over from his post to the bars, wincing at the sound of his footsteps echoing too loudly against the empty halls.

“Excuse me,” he coughs. “Would you like more water?”

Slowly, the man moves his head to look at Robb over his shoulder. There are deep wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, which glare up at him beneath a pair of thick brows. Wordlessly, the man passes the cup through the iron bars.

Robb takes it and feels the man’s heavy gaze as he moves towards the large barrels of water kept for the guards. The water is warm from the heat, but still feels refreshingly cool as he plunges his hand in. On hot days like this, the barrel would usually be nearing empty by mid-morning, but the absence of the rest of the guard has left it close to overflowing.

The prisoner takes back the cup in silence. “What’s your name?” Robb steps back towards his corner.

The man doesn’t say anything at all. He raises the cup to his lips and Robb suddenly notices the hideous scar that spans from the tip of his chin to the underside of his nose. His mouth opens like a flower, four flaps of skin parting to drink. Water spills out from his mouth and trickles into his thick white beard, and he laughs—a short, barking noise—at Robb’s expression, before turning back towards the wall.

Robb swallows down his unease and settles back to his post. Just a few more hours and he’ll be relieved from his post. He’ll be taking his evening meal in the Red Keep tonight rather than the barracks. Arya will want to hold his rifle, and Sansa will interrogate him about the gallant adventures of a city guard. Mother will ask when he’s coming back home, while Father tries to talk about his responsibilities as Hand. He’ll end the evening sneaking off to watch Bran climb with Rickon riding on his shoulders. He’ll try and fail to not think about the empty seat at the table and try to find a way to tell his parents that he’s unhappy in King’s Landing.

With a sigh, Robb settles back against the stone, resigned to spending the rest of his shift sweating in silence. The prison is silent, and Robb strains his ears to listen to the sound of the sea, the distant crashing of waves against rock, the call of gulls and fishermen, a sharp clang of metal against stone—

Robb frowns—the prisoner too, perks up at the sound, as it echoes through the hall—and moves against the wall following the sound to where this row of cells meets a hallway. He pauses against the stone, hand hovering near the rifle slung over his shoulder. There’s the sound of quick footsteps, echoing softly. Someone rounds the corner and nearly barrels over Robb, so fast that their faces nearly slam together. They stop in their tracks, twisting on their heels, nose nearly brushing against Robb’s.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Robb says, shifting the strap of his rifle.

The stranger’s black eyes gleam in the dim light. Fast as a heartbeat, he steps back, slender hands darting within his coat and pulling out a bright silver pistol. “I know,” he says, pressing the end of the barrel against the soft skin between Robb’s eyes. “Move back, greenlander. Would be a shame to blow off a face as pretty as yours.”

Suddenly, the hot summer air feels as cold as winter, with the metal tip of the pistol burning his skin like ice. Robb steps back, dread settling in his shoulders like a bitter chill, until his back presses against the wall beneath the window, shoulder pressed against the bars of the prison cell. 

“Good lad,” the stranger smiles. Robb abruptly and stupidly thinks that he has nice teeth. “Do me a favor and drop your rifle while you’re at it.”

Reluctantly, Robb slides the leather strap of his rifle off his shoulder and slowly moves to place it on the stone floor. A pair of dark eyes follow his movements, and the silver pistol lowers to point towards the center of Robb’s chest. Looking satisfied, the stranger’s eyes flit to the cell, and calls out: “Dag? Is that you, uncle?”

The man in the cage stands for the first time, moving out of the shadows. Robb glances to his right in quiet horror as the seemingly frail man unfurls to his full size. Hunched shoulders shift into proud, strong ones. He towers over Robb, thick hands grasping at the iron bars. His broken lips split into a four-way grin, shattered teeth peering through the gaps in his face.

“Theon!” The prisoner crows. His voice booms loudly against the stone as he laughs, rich with vigor. “Took you long enough, boy.”

“Peculiar way of thanking me, the rest of my kin would have left you for dead the moment you were caught.”

Laughing, the stranger steps forward into the thin strip of light. He wears a half-buttoned linen shirt under a midnight black long coat with brass buttons that gleam in the light. His skin is a rich color, tanned by the sun, with an unruly shock of black hair. There’s a silk sash tied loosely around his waist, dyed black and embroidered in gold thread with writhing tentacles.

“You’re a pirate,” Robb says.

“I’m a Greyjoy. There’s a difference.”

The prisoner scoffs. “Makes little difference to greenlanders.”

Greyjoy gestures loosely at Robb with his pistol, the movement makes the gold rings on his fingers shine. “Yes, yes. Let’s leave it at that. If you don’t mind handing over the keys, lad, me and my ugly companion here will be on our merry way.”

“No,” Robb says. The prisoner laughs.

“No?” The pirate’s face screws into something ugly and sneering. “My apologies. Let me make this clearer for you. Hand over the keys or you’ll get a bullet in your skull.”

The keys burn inside his chest pocket. Robb straightens as much as he can with a pistol pointed at him, moving his shoulders back. “I said no.” He thinks of his father’s stern face, of Ice coming down on someone’s bare neck. “I won’t give them to you. I would die before I willingly aided a pirate. It’s dishonorable.”

“This greenlander has some iron in him,” the prisoner says. He’s pressed up against the bars, leering down at Robb with a horrific smirk on his mutilated face.

Greyjoy scoffs, “What’s your name, kid?”

Robb bristles. “I’m not a child.”

“You’re acting like one, thinking honor is worth dying over. Tell me your name, so I can curse you in my cups tonight.” 

“Robb,” he replies, lifting his chin. “Robb Stark.”

There’s a moment of silence as Greyjoy looks him over and shares a look with his companion.

“Stark, huh?” He swallows, hard. “Like the Hand of the King?”

“He does have that Riverlander look.”

Greyjoy cocks his head, black hair falling onto his face. The shell of his ear is covered in copper and gold piercings. “Dagmer,” he says, lowering his pistol. “Take care of this, if you please.”

The bars rattle as the prisoner reaches out and seizes Robb roughly by the sleeve of his gold tailcoat. There’s a clang as he collides into the wall, and an indescribable sound of metal on bone as the iron edge of the cup comes down sharp on the back of Robb’s head.

His knees hit the stone, and the last thing Robb hears is the sound of the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Welcome to my first asoiaf fic. As this is the first chapter, have some context for this fic. 
> 
> 1\. As seen in the tags, this is a au heavily inspired by Pirates of the Caribbean and a smidge of Black Sails. This is not a beat-for-beat plot adaptation of those media, but some aspects of that have inspired the story. I've tried my best to transpose Westeros on top of the 1600s Golden Age of Piracy. King's Landing has been reduxed as a tropical island, with Winterfell, for example, sort of being where England would be. The Westerlands mimic the "New World" and the gold of Casterly Rock is an analogue to the gold trade during this historical period. Anyways, I doubt this will be relevant, but it's fun for me to think about.
> 
> 2\. Ned Stark is the Hand of the King, and has subsequently moved his entire family to Kings Landing. Robb is currently serving in the city guard as a goldcloak--so picture those Royal Navy outfits from POTC in gold, lol. Poor thing is incredibly bored, as all of his siblings have fun things to do in KL. 
> 
> 3\. Each chapter title is based off a certain song, and will have quotes the beginning. This is an artistic choice bc I am pretentious and it's insanely fun. The song for chapter one is "Prelude" by the Decemberists. It's a slow beginning, but that describes the opening to this fic pretty well. This fic is pretty much outlined, although the first 11 chapters are much more concrete than the latter half. I hope to keep this at 21 chapters, but we shall see! 
> 
> Okay! Wow. To those of you that have read this far, thanks for reading!


	2. ii. dear fellow traveller

In the beginning was the sea—we heard the surf in our breathing, certain that we carried seawater in our veins.

Ilya Kaminsky, excerpt of “ _Traveling Musicians_ ”, in _Dancing in Odessa_

The _Sea Bitch_ pulls out of the harbor by dusk, skimming over the Blackwater Rush. Once King’s Landing is a speck against the purple evening sky, the crew erupts into cheers. The white canvas comes down; black sails are hoisted up on the rigging. Vickon Botley climbs up past the skysail, ripping down Baratheon’s royal standard with a shout, and raises up their black banner, emblazoned with the gold kraken of Theon’s ancestors.

Dagmer is smoking on the quarterdeck, passing a pipe between Maron and Rymolf. The stink of their tobacco wafts all the way down to the foremast, where Theon stands, feeding rope up to Harlon and Wex. The old man constantly claims that his eyes are going soft, but he manages to catch Theon’s gag as a particularly strong cloud of smoke burns at his eyes. Dagmer grins, meeting his eyes. Half of his teeth are broken; the other half are rotten, but his smile is still sweet.

Wex descends from the foremast with a quiet thump; Harlon follows shortly afterwards, roughly ruffling his bastard cousin’s hair, and throwing a loose arm around Theon’s shoulder. “Captain,” he whispers. “Todric’s nicked a case of strongwine from the harbor. Shall we celebrate the return of dear Dagmer with a drink?”

“And spend my night watching you lose your guts over the railing?”

“That was one time. When are you going to let it go?”

“Never,” Theon sings sweetly. “I’ll lord it over you even when we’re bloated corpses feasting in the Drowned God’s hall.”

Harlon reaches out to tug sharply at one of the piercings in his ear; Theon ducks out from underneath his shoulder, laughing, and lets Harlon drag him by the arm to where Todric’s perched up on the gunwale, a thick wine skein sitting in his lap. 

The older ironborn is flushed red from drink, regaling some tale that he’s told dozens of times. Vickon sits at his side, the Baratheon flag tucked haphazardly into one of his shoes. He scowls up at his elder brother as they approach, and Harlon shoves his hand onto Vickon’s face, roughly pushing the younger onto the deck.

“You aren’t drinking strongwine. Go help Wex with dinner.”

“Git,” Vickon spits, jumping back to his feet. He looks nearly identical to his brother, the only distinct difference being the color of his eyes and the tilt of his nose. “Todric says I could try it.”

“I did.”

“And I’m your brother. No. Now, fuck off.”

Vickon turns his blue eyes away from Harlan, pleading. “Theon! Can’t you—”

“Don’t—don’t’ ask Theon! He can’t help you.”

Theon laughs, and leans up against the gunwale. “If he wants to try it, I say let him.”

“You’re a younger brother,” Harlon protests. Vickon grins up at him in excited gratitude. “You’re biased.”

“I’m the captain. Todric, give him some.”

Vickon takes a swig from the offered skein, and immediately spits it back up onto the deck. He tugs the Baratheon flag out of his boot and wipes wine and spit from the corner of his mouth. “I’m used to ale,” he sputters weakly against Todric and Theon’s laugher. Harlon smirks down at him with the same expression Asha makes when Theon has done something incredibly stupid.

“Run off, you little shit,” he kicks at his brother with restrained affection, and the younger Botley scurries off below deck with Wex, who makes a rude sign that has Vickon’s face flush bright red.

Todric passes the wine over; Theon takes the first swig. The wine burns at his nose, while Harlon has tears in his eyes as he swallows down his share. As night falls, the water turns as black as their sails. The moon is peeking over the horizon, glimmering on the water, when Stygg and Urzen emerge from below deck, coming to converse with Todric in the boastful tones of older men. Harlon stares blankly, eyes glazed over, as Cadwyl rants about the minutiae of spear craftsmanship.

Theon throws his head back and breathes in the sea, the salt on the air, the undercurrent of bitter wine, and the cool breeze of a calm night. Laughter rings out across the water; his crew joking and singing, buzzing with pleasure. Harlon is a steady weight against his shoulder; the wine settling warm and low in his stomach. Amidst the sounds of the waves and water, the wind in the sails, there’s a set of familiar footsteps, and Dagmer rests a heavy hand on Theon’s shoulder.

“We should talk, lad,” he says quietly. “Fill in the others on your plan.”

Theon stands, shaking out the end of his coat. “Alright, have Maron and Rymolf meet in your quarters. Put Gevin on the steer and tell him we sail for Pyke.”

Dagmer heads off; Harlon gives Theon a pitiable look as Cadwyl takes a seat beside him. He smirks and waves, turning on his heels and making his way below deck. He can hear Vickon chattering away at Wex as they prepare the evening meal. It’s some sort of broth soup, going off the smell as Theon passes the galley.

The captain’s cabin is pressed up against the stern. The _Sea Bitch_ isn’t the largest ship, but Theon’s quarters are as spacious and luxurious as he could get away with. There’s a lush, Myrish rug taken from a Volantene trade ship, a cherry wood desk stolen from a Braavosi noble, and a red-haired nobleman snatched straight from King’s Landing. All paid for by the Iron Price—father would be proud.

Robb Stark starts yelling as soon as Theon enters his cabin. The sound is muffled by the cloth gag, but nonetheless, the volume is impressive, howling like the wolf on his sigil. His blue eyes are furious; the effect strengthened by the dried blood on his temple and brow. The stretch of skin on his forehead is already swelling from where Dagmer hit him with the cup, matching the rich red of his curls.

“Hello, Stark,” Theon says. “Don’t mind me, just popping in.”

He crosses his cabin, stepping over Stark’s legs, to a collection of scrolls on a shelf. They’ve bound him to a support beam, limbs secured by thick rope. His prisoner squirms and makes more unintelligible noises of protest.

Theon plucks a specific map out of the shelf and makes to leave his cabin. Stark makes one last, loud noise, and he stops in the door, glancing at him over his shoulder. “Don’t fret,” Theon says sweetly. “I’ll be back to deal with you later.”

As his first mate, Dagmer’s cabin is right down the hall. When he enters, he finds Dagmer, Maron, and Rymolf waiting, standing around a round table. All three of them still stink of smoke and look decidedly more amused when they see Theon wrinkle his nose.

“All right, lad,” Dagmer starts, gesturing to the empty table. “Tell us what thoughts are brewing in that head of yours.”

Theon spreads out his scroll, revealing a map of the Summer Sea, spanning from Westeros to the shores of Essos. It’s beautifully painted, with rich blues and shimmering gold ink. “I presume we are all familiar with the _Lionstar.”_

Rymolf abruptly spits on the floor. “Fucking Lannisters.”

“Fucking Lannisters,” Theon echoes, he points at the Westerlands on the map. “We’ve all heard the rumors. Tywin Lannister is sending the largest shipment of gold even seen on the Summer Sea sometime in the next few months.”

“It’ll make its way from Casterly Rock,” he pauses, sliding his finger across the map. “And sail all the way to King’s Landing.”

Maron Botley leans forward, glancing down at the map. “That’s what the _Lionstar_ is being prepped for?”

“Right, Fishwhiskers. It’s their largest war galley. They have to be outfitting it for a reason.”

“ _Bold Wind_ and _Sea Swift_ are being retarred, or so says little Asha,” Dagmer says. “They won’t be sending _Lionstar_ alone.”

“No. It’s not just gold. It’s jewels, Myrish lace and cloth of gold. It’s all meant to fund the crown prince’s wedding. Lannister can’t risk his grandson’s reception looking too cheap.”

Rymolf scowls. “And what does the greenlander in your cabin have to do with this?”

“I was getting there,” Theon starts. “The issue with _Lionstar_ is that Lannister’s kept the schedule and route from slipping out. Even if anyone wanted to, they wouldn’t know where to intercept.”

He taps his knuckles against King’s Landing on the map, rings knocking against the wood. “The greenlander is Robb Stark. His father is Baratheon’s Hand, and his sister is the one getting married to the royal brat. He’s our best chance of getting any information, and he’s currently tied up in my cabin.”

Theon finishes, a little out of breath from excitement. Maron and Rymolf look lost in thought, peering down at the map. Dagmer nods his head and gives Theon a smile, which causes Theon’s lips to quirk up in response.

“And,” Rymolf begins. “You intend to take on the strongest war galley in the Lannister fleet?”

“Yes.”

Rymolf laughs, the sound is harsh with disbelief. “If Victarion were here, he would call you a vainglorious cur.”

“I don’t think my uncle even knows what that word means.”

“ _Lionstar_ is a fearsome war galley, even if it was built by greenlanders” Maron starts. “The _Sea Bitch_ wouldn’t stand a chance, no offense meant, captain.”

“Don’t forget _Bold Wind_ and _Sea Swift,_ ” Dagmer adds, traitorously.

“Ours is a good ship,” Theon starts. “But I know she wouldn’t stand a chance against a war galley of that size. That’s why we won’t go it alone.”

Fishwhiskers looks contemplative, and Rymolf’s jaw shuts with an audible _click._ “You mean to propose this to Lord Balon?”

“I do.”

“He just might be receptive,” Maron muses, hand twisted in his beard. “If you talk to him with your sis—”

“It’s _my_ plan, not Asha’s.”

“We know lad, it’s just that—”

“Lord Balon won’t regard anything you say as important until the Drowned God himself rises out of the waves and tells him to,” Rymolf finishes.

“And,” Maron at least as the decency to look apologetic. “We all know Asha is close to your lord father.”

Dagmer rounds the table and claps a hand on his shoulder. If it’s meant to be comforting, all it actually does is make Theon’s skin crawl. “It’s a cunning plan, lad, but if—”

Theon huffs, shrugging his arm out from beneath Dagmer’s hand. “I’m going to deal with Stark,” he rolls the map up with a quick snap, tucking it beneath his elbow and leaving the older men to mutter to each other. “Don’t let Stygg know who he really is, or Urzen, for that matter. They’re more likely to gut the little wolf before he manages to give us anything useful.”

Wex catches him in the hall, a wood bowl of broth in his hands. It’s the last mercifully fresh meal before weeks of hardtack and salted meat. The broth is a rich brown color, warm with the stolen spices they had taken from a Dornish trade vessel. He quirks a brow at Theon’s pinched expression and offers it to him wordlessly, tilting his head.

“It’s nothing,” Theon grouses, taking the soup. “Just Dag and his council of overly cautious fools.”

His cabin boy grins up at him, flashing his crooked teeth, as if to say, _they’re old, what did you expect?_ Or, maybe it’s more of a _shut up and eat your soup, captain._ Theon settles on the latter interpretation, taking a sip of the broth. It’s a tad heavy on the thyme—he’s willing to bet that it was Vickon’s doing—but the flavor is strong, blooming over his tongue.

“At least you’ll never have anything bad to say about me, lad.”

His mute cabin boy very gracefully lifts his hand and flips him off. Theon shoves his hand onto Wex’s brown hair and weakly pushes him to the side. His mouth opens in a silent laugh, eyes bright.

“Share a bunk with one of the Botley boys tonight, you bastard,” Theon smiles. “I’ve got to deal with the greenlander.”

Wex nods and scampers off, disappearing around the corner. After a moment, he can hear his faint footsteps on the deck, likely running to rejoin the others and try his hand at the finger dance.

Stark’s eyes snap open when Theon reenters his cabin, glinting in the light of the oil lamp. He doesn’t yell this time, and his eyes silently follow Theon as he sets the bowl of broth on his desk and returns the map to its proper place.

There’s a moment of stillness, Theon standing adrift in the center of the room, before he squares his shoulders and exhales. He crouches down in front of Stark, meeting his eye-level, and gives him his most charming smile. “Hello, hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

Brow furrowed, Stark says something incomprehensible and struggles at his bonds. Theon leans forward and pulls out the cloth gag, it’s soaked through and unpleasantly wet to the touch. Stark’s jaw clicks shut, and Theon can see the tendons in his neck moving beneath the skin. He stays crouched on his heels like a cat and waits, silently looking over his prisoner. Their eyes lock; Stark’s are a deep blue, like the color of the ocean on a warm summer’s day. The reflection of the oil lamp, flame dancing in a glass cage, look like the movement of waves, tumultuous and stormy.

Stark looks away first, glancing briefly to the side. His jaw clenches again, and then he speaks: “If you think I’m going to help you, you’re mistaken. I refuse to tell you anything about my father or the King.” The expression on his face is meant to be stern, Theon thinks, but the furrow of his brow and the set of his mouth look out of place on his face, as if he was mimicking someone else.

“Do you think I’m boring?” Stark gives him an incredulous look, and Theon continues, without waiting for an answer. “Why would I want to hear about two old men? I hear Baratheon is just another drunken louse these days,” he thinks of Todric, “and I’ve already got one of those on my crew.”

“I—,” the other starts, his brow is furrowed in genuine confusion.

“I’d much rather hear about your sister, is she as fair as you?”

Stark’s face screws into something ugly and he leans forward and spits in Theon’s face. It splatters over his skin like sea spray, hot and dripping to the plank floor. Theon rocks back on his heels, a joyless grin stretching wide across his face. “Well,” he wipes his cheek with the back of his hand. “I may be a pirate, but that was rude.”

“Leave my family out of this.”

“But she’s getting married, is she not?”

“It won’t be to you.”

“I don’t want your sister; I want her dowry.” Stark is guarded; Theon needs to change tactics. He reaches up on the table and brings the bowl of soup down into his lap. Robb’s eyes focus on it immediately, as Theon raises it to his lips and takes a loud sip. There’s a rumble of hunger that’s audible against the creaking of the ship and the crashing of the waves outside, and he smirks against the lip of the bowl.

“Let’s make something clear,” he starts, sweetly. “I don’t remotely care about your rich greenlander family. Your sister can marry a braying ass dressed up in fine silks for all that it matters to me.”

He pauses. Stark’s face is furrowed with cautious curiosity, but otherwise composed.

“We can strike a deal, a neat little accord, if you will. I’ll ask no more of your family, but I do have other questions that need answers. If you cooperate, I’ll send someone to fetch to a meal from the galley.”

Stark nods, hesitantly slow. Theon takes another swallow of broth and settles, elbows on his knees. “What do you know of the _Lionstar?”_

“Is—is that the name of a boat?”

“A ship,” Theon corrects snidely.

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not a liar.” A little bit of heat in the tone, blue eyes flashing.

“It’s the flagship of Tywin Lannister’s treasure fleet.” No recognition. “Cargo will be full with gold and jewels, all to fund his grandson’s wedding.” Still nothing. “The one to your sister.”

Stark blinks. “This is news to me.”

“How can this be news to you?” Theon’s voice rises sharply, before he chokes down his frustration. He tries again, keeping is voice level. “Your father is the Hand, he must have mentioned this to you. The schedule, the route, something! Even the date of the bloody wedding would be useful.”

“My father does not share everything with me,” Stark starts. Theon abruptly recalls Balon’s stern wrinkled face and cold eyes, Asha’s pity-filled ones, and feels a brief spark of sympathy. “Some things are meant to be left as matters of state.”

His newborn sympathy dies a quick death. Theon scowls. “And here I thought you were an honorable man, instead all I see is a liar.”

That gets a rise out of Stark. “I’m not a filthy liar,” he growls. “I don’t know anything.”

Something akin to panic rises in Theon’s throat. “You have to know,” he insists. “You’re lying to me.”

“I’m not,” Stark pleads. His face is so earnest in its anger that Theon’s blood turns to ice.

Wordlessly, he leans forward and shoves the cloth gag back into his mouth, Stark’s teeth snapping at Theon’s fingers in panic. The young wolf starts yelling, straining at his bonds, as Theon stands and slams the door of his cabin behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks! Here is chapter two. I hesitate to say that from now on this fic will update on a weekly schedule but as of right now I am very inspired to write, so lets aim for weekend updates. Here are some insights into this chapter: 
> 
> 1\. This chapter's song is Dear Fellow Traveller by Sea Wolf. 
> 
> 2\. I don't think that this story will have consistent alternate POVs. I think that it will be mostly be told from the perspective of Robb, but I wanted to get into the headspace of Theon a little bit, especially in order to set up some of the upcoming plot points. This is a universe where Theon grew up with his parents as an ironborn, however he obviously still feels that he's been overlooked and has a desire to prove himself to Balon, who still prefers Asha. 
> 
> 3\. This chapter also introduces the crew of the Sea Bitch! They're going to play a large part in this fic so I wanted to spend some time introducing them. Rymolf is the steersman and is on loan from Victarion's crew. Maron Botley, aka Fishwhiskers, is the father of Tris Botley (who is in love with Asha in the books), along with five other sons, including Harlon and Vickon. Wex is their bastard cousin. Gevin Harlaw is the navigator, and is likely a distant cousin of Theon's.
> 
> 4\. For those of you that are familiar with Wex, he is Theon's squire in the books. The line about sharing a bunk is taken from ACoK, as Wex sleeps at the foot of Theon's bed when he's taken Winterfell. In this adaptation, Wex has been translated to cabin boy, and is currently 15. He is also mute. 
> 
> 5\. Here is a little info dump about the ages: Theon is 23, Robb is 19. Harlon is 21 and Vickon is 16. Sansa is 16, Arya 13, Bran 11, and Rickon is 7. We will being a bit of the other Stark siblings in future chapters.
> 
> Anyways! Thanks for reading and the responses on the last chapters. I'm very excited to embark on this journey with you all!


	3. iii. black sails

—it whispers into the water. He will remember his first sight of the open sea: a grey wrinkled vastness, like the residue of a dream.

Hilary Mantel, _Wolf Hall_

Somehow, Robb manages to sleep.

The gag in his mouth makes his jaw ache, his back uncomfortably pressed against a wooden beam, his wrists feel like fire, chafed from the roughspun rope binding his arms behind him. Robb’s shoulder burns, his stomach roils from anger and hunger, and his head still aches from being bludgeoned with an iron cup.

Yet, there is nothing to do but sleep. Greyjoy does not return after his abrupt exit, and Robb waits for an hour, two, three, watching the soup cool on the table. This prison is much nicer than the one in King’s Landing, brimming with luxury and color. There’s a Myrish rug spread over most of the planking, a beautiful crimson color, and a cherry wood desk that wouldn’t look out of place in Father’s own solar. Bookshelves are built into the port side of the wall, brimming with scrolls and little trinkets: a golden scale, a carved jade lion with one raised paw, a wrought-iron kraken clutching a boat in its tentacles.

A large mattress that looks stuffed with down rather than straw takes up most of the starboard side, with rumpled silk sheets dyed a rich sea-foam green and embroidered with some Essosi pattern. Robb eyes it longingly as he fidgets, shoulder pressing uncomfortably against the corner of the beam.

The oil lamp slowly burns out, and the room turns the color of pitch. Robb can hear the crashing of the waves, but the ship is otherwise silent. Rocked by the water, the sound would almost be comforting as he drifts to sleep.

And he dreams.

A great wave crashes over the walls of Winterfell, their estate drowning in saltwater and rain. The pups in the kennel are howling, Grey Wind and little Lady, Summer and Shaggy, Nymeria, and even Ghost’s mournful cries choked by the sea and drowned out by thunder.

Robb stands submerged chest-deep in the courtyard, and the water is rising quickly. There are shackles on his wrist, anchoring him to the ground, and burning at his skin. The sea is colder than ice, sending shivers up his spine as the salt spray burns at his eyes.

He blinks, and suddenly Father is in the water with him.

“Help me!” Robb pleads, tugging at his chains. He speaks but his mouth refuses to move. The water is up at his chin now, splashing against his lips.

Father opens his mouth and flies come out, crawling against his glassy eyes. A maggot slides down his chin like spittle. Robb realizes suddenly that his Father is not standing there at all, but his decapitated head bobs on the water, spinning in the current.

He turns his head, and there is Mother, face-down in bloody water, her red hair floating over her like a shroud. Robb’s face is wet—whether from tears or rain or sea spray, he doesn’t know.

There’s the sound of screaming, and Robb looks up, ripping his eyes away from his parent’s corpses.

Sansa is up on the roof of the broken old tower. She’s fallen to her knees, hands clawing at a silver collar around her throat, gasping for air. Little Rickon is clutching at her skirts, looking up at her as he wails.

Arya is shouting too, but the words are lost in the howling wind. His youngest sister is crouched halfway over the ledge, holding on to Bran’s hand as he dangles in the air. The rain has made everything slick, and with a loud clap of thunder, Bran slips further out of her grasp, until he’s barely hanging on by his fingers.

Bran says something to her, oddly serene. Arya screams back, face screwed with anger, and tries to climb farther over the ledge to pull him back up.

_Do they see me?_ Robb wonders, the water has risen past his nose. His lungs burn; he swallows down saltwater. _Do they know that I’m gone?_

There’s another flash of lightning, and the following clap of thunder is so deafening it seems to shake the world. Bran smiles up at his sister before he lets go of her hand, and plummets down below. 

Robb’s head goes underwater. The sea is dark like blood, his lungs are burning.

_Wake up, greenlander!_

He takes a breath, Robb is drowning. Everything burns, his lungs, his eyes, his head is about to explode from the pressure and—

“Stark!”

Robb jolts awake with a gasp, blinking at the sudden early-morning light. The cabin is cast in shades of grey, with dim sunlight patterned on the floor from the back windows.

The man from the prison with the hideous scar—Dagmer?—grins down at him, lips spread open in an ugly four-way smile. Greyjoy lingers in the doorway, shoulder pressed up against the wall and his arms folded in front of his chest. His coat is absent today, dressed in a simple linen shirt with tapered cuff sleeves and black breeches. His jaw is clenched, but otherwise composed, and Greyjoy silently watches, black eyes shining strangely in the dim morning light.

“Pay attention, greenlander,” Dagmer says, snapping his fingers. “I’m here to set some things straight.”

He rips out the cloth gag and Robb’s jaw sets alight with pain, teeth aching and muscles spasming from the strain. Robb pops his jaw, once, twice, and the pain settles into a dull ache.

“Theon tells me that we captured a little liar.”

Robb clenches his jaw out of instinct and inhales sharply at the flare of pain. “I swear I don’t know anything about the Lion’s Paw, or whatever it is you think I know.”

“Are you sure that’s true?”

“I’m not lying,” Robb meets Dagmer’s gaze, biting the inside of his cheek. The pirate looks at him in silence for over a minute, and then nods before turning away.

“He’s telling the truth.”

Greyjoy pushes off the wall, frowning. “Are you sure? How can you—?”

“Lad, I’ve been sailing longer than your father’s been alive. I know a liar when I see one. This one couldn’t lie to save his life.”

“Dag,” his brow is furrowed. “What am I supposed to do? If he doesn’t—,”

The older of the two takes Greyjoy by the shoulders and returns to the doorway where they descend into hushed whispers. If Robb strains his ears, he can hear snatches of their conversation, the frustrated hiss of Greyjoy’s voice, his hands gesturing wildly in the air.

“You could—ransom the lad—his father—.”

Greyjoy steps back with a loud, sharp exhale. “Fine. Ask him.”

Dagmer returns, crossing the room in a few long strides. “You’re the oldest of Stark’s children?”

_Not by much,_ Robb thinks. _I’ve only got a month or two on Jon._ “Yes,” he says instead.

“There,” he nods. “First born sons are always a father’s favorite. We’ll get a handsome ransom for the life of his boy. ”

Something stormy crosses over Greyjoy’s face. “Give him a meal and bring him up to the deck,” he says, voice firm. He turns abruptly on his heels and leaves, his silk sash flying out behind him like a shadow. The older pirate unsheathes a dagger from his belt and moves behind the beam.

The ropes around Robb’s wrists slip off and pool on the floor. Dagmer moves back into sight, spinning a dagger in his hand. His skin is red and raw, even the air seems to sting at his wrists. Robb rubs at the burns and glances up as Dagmer’s heavy boots stop before him.

He offers a hand, calloused fingers laden in heavy rings. Sapphire and silver, emerald and gold. An obsidian stone set into a copper band glimmers strangely in the light. _Dragonglass_. His knuckles are covered in a thousand tiny scars, oddly white against tanned skin.

Slowly, Robb reaches up to take it, and Dagmer lifts him up abruptly—and for a moment, it feels like Robb is flying—and throws him against the beam, twisting one arm behind his back and pinching at his chafed wrists. Robb’s face slams against the rough grain of the wood, blood rushing in his ears.

“Let’s get something straight here, lad,” the older man growls. The dagger is pressed up against his back and sends shivers up his spine. “Theon hopes that you might be of some value to him, but he’s young. If you get in your skull to try to escape or attack any of the crew, remember that I’ll be watching you. And if you manage to prove yourself a real man and kill my boy, I’ll drown you myself and _feed_ on your bloated corpse like a shark.”

Suddenly, the pressure on his back is gone. When Robb manages to turn himself around, Dagmer stands in the doorway, dagger tucked neatly into his belt. The pirate smiles; he can’t tell if it’s meant to be threatening or placating or self-satisfied, but the sight of it is wholly horrific. Robb still can’t process the way his lips split open like a fruit, the cracked and shattered teeth, the jaggedness of the scar.

Whatever happened to him, it’s a miracle he survived. 

Robb follows Dagmer out of the cabin and down through a narrow hallway. They duck into a narrow room that reeks of salt and ale. Dried herbs are strung up on racks along with thinly sliced fruits. Thick barrels line the walls, stacked up on top of each other to the ceiling, and bound securely with ropes. A hodgepodge of dishes are stacked on a self, wooden bowls and tin plates and delicate porcelain cups painted delicately with summer flowers.

“Wex!” Dagmer shouts, pounding on the doorframe. A young man with messy dark hair and a feral grin pops out from behind a pile of crates. “Bring some hardtack. And find me one of those peaches,” he glances to Robb. “Do you like peaches, lad?”

Wordlessly, he nods.

“Good. We need to get rid of them before the rot sets in.” 

A fruit flies through the air, sailing over the crates, and narrowly misses Robb’s face. It collides neatly into Dagmer’s large palm, and the boy grins at the other side of the room, laughing silently. He darts over with a grain biscuit wrapped in a stained cloth. The boy reaches up to snatch the peach out of Dagmer’s hand and presents both to Robb.

“Thank you,” Robb mutters. The boy winks and seemingly disappears back behind the crates.

Gnawing on the biscuit makes his jaw ache, but the peach is soft, overly ripe with juice. It smells fresh, but with a cloying undercurrent of the sweet scent that precludes rot. Robb bites into it eagerly, juice exploding into his mouth and dripping down his chin messily. Mother would be appalled, but hunger and thirst make him eat down to the pit, turning it over in his sticky fingers.

Dagmer chews on his own hardtack; Robb resolutely decides to not learn what his mouth looks when he eats, facing a wall. When they’ve both finished, he leads Robb up to the main deck, and they emerge into the daylight.

It will be a cloudy day, and the world is desaturated and quiet. The morning sun peeks over the horizon, a faint white light shining through the cloud cover. A breeze stirs at the sails, but even the water feels subdued, lapping softly at the prow as the boat skims over the water. The sea is a grey mirror, unbroken by waves and still like winter. The black canvas sails are reflected like stains of ink on the water.

He had sailed, only once, when Father moved the family from Winterfell to King’s Landing. Robb had spent most of his time below deck, half-seasick and half-bored, passing his days making up stories with Jon in their shared cabin. The sea had been a deep blue, a glittering sight that held so much promise. 

Arya had shrieked when King’s Landing appeared on the horizon; Sansa cooing in awe at the sight of the Red Keep poised over the water. Mother had hoisted Rickon up in her arms, laughing, while Bran snuck off to climb up to the crow’s nest to get the best view. Father had regarded the city with a grim determination, and even Robb had been hesitantly excited. Out at sea, you can’t smell the stink of the city, the festering wound of its corruption polluting the water.

Jon had stayed below deck. Out of all of them, he had the right idea.

Dagmer pushes Robb up the stairs to where Greyjoy stands on the upper deck and then moves towards the stern to converse with a grizzly looking man. He keeps one hand on his gun and one eye on Robb, who moves to linger out of his sight. 

Greyjoy has one hand loosely curled around the helm, eyes resolutely fixed on the horizon. Each of his fingers are covered in rings, thick golden ones and thin silver bands. Tarnished copper and gleaming gemstones.

“You seem like a reasonable man,” he starts.

For a moment, Robb almost wants to laugh. “What else can I be? It’s blatantly clear that you’ll kill me at any moment.”

“You seem like a reasonable man,” Greyjoy snaps. “And I am not one, so don’t interrupt me again. I’m going to cut you another deal.”

“You didn’t follow through on the last one.”

Greyjoy gives him a nasty look, and Robb says, “I didn’t interrupt you.” That makes him look even angrier, and Robb smiles, taking this tiny little victory into his heart.

“We’re going to ransom you. Once your father pays, we’ll drop you off in Dorne and go our separate ways. Until then, I can’t keep you tied up in my cabin nor do I have a brig to keep you locked up in. If you behave—and that means no attacking me or my crew—you can have a bunk below deck and free reign of the ship. Keep your last name a secret and the men will take to you, I’m sure.”

Robb rubs at the rope burns on his wrists. “How can I trust that you’ll keep your word?”

“You can’t.” A grin.

“And if my father won’t pay my ransom?”

“He will,” Theon insists. It irks Robb to know that he’s right, that a pirate is weaponizing Father’s love.

“But if he doesn’t.”

“Then I’ll have Dagmer kill you,” Greyjoy answers flippantly. “It’s not terribly complicated.”

He thinks of Ice, terrible and deadly and beautiful. “You wouldn’t do it yourself?”

Greyjoy gives him a strange look. “Why would I?”

“My father says the one who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

“Do you think I care about your father’s backwards philosophy?” 

The world turns red. “You should, it might be the only fatherly advice you’ll ever get,” Robb blinks, clenching his fists. “Considering how much of an insufferable ass you are, I wouldn’t be surprised if your own father never bothered to teach you anything at all.” 

Greyjoy’s fingers tighten on the helm, knuckles white. “Fine,” and then he laughs, face spread in an ugly grin. “I’ll put a bullet through your eyes myself if it’ll make you happy.”

He turns away. The clouds have gotten darker, an ominous grey looming up in the sky. Maybe it’ll rain. For a moment, Robb thinks he sees a pair of birds, but realizes that it’s two small figures, climbing up through the rigging like spiders.

“Is that it?” Robb says. “Am I supposed to spend my days being watched over like a child?

“That depends, Stark. Did your father teach you how to sail when he gave you shitty moral advice?” 

“It’s not bad advice,” Robb replies instinctively. “It’s about responsibility. Accountability. If you sentence a man to die, you owe it to him to see those last moments.” Greyjoy goes quiet at that, mouth downturned and brow furrowed. The breeze starts to pick up, snapping at the black sails.

“You didn’t answer my question, Stark.”

“What?”

“Can you sail?”

“Us greenlanders don’t really have much opportunity to learn,” Robb says dryly; Greyjoy laughs again.

“We could always use another hand on deck. Plus, it’ll keep you from spending your days moping around like a kicked dog. Who taught you to brood in such a pitiable manner?”

_My brother,_ Robb thinks. Jon spent half of his life with a frown on his face, it only made his rare smiles seem sweeter. A thing to savor. “I learned from the best.”

Greyjoy smiles; it really is a pleasant sight when it’s not so sharp. “If you break anything or put in a rip in any of my sails, fuck your ransom and fuck Lannister gold, I’ll give you that personal execution you want so badly immediately.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

At that, Greyjoy laughs and sticks two fingers into his clever mouth to whistle. It echoes sharp and loud over the water and one of the figures in the rigging uses a rope to descend rapidly to the deck. A dark-haired man lands on the planks with a thud and props himself up on the railing. His hair is tied back from his face, with sharp eyes and a scar on his lip.

“Captain.”

“Harlan. Have it in you to teach a greenlander how to sail?”

“That’s an impossible task, Theon. Do you like to watch me fail?”

“An impossible task?” Robb starts. “I’m not—,”

“Was I talking to you?” Harlan snaps, not even glancing towards Robb.

“Start him on knots,” Greyjoy says, smirking. “If he mouths off, feel free to smack him about a bit. No blood. And don’t push him overboard.”

“I think I can manage that,” the other beams. He reaches out and grabs Robb roughly by his hair, fingers twisting in his curls. “What your name, kid?”

“Robb,” he grits out. “Robb Snow.”

Harlan lets go of his hair, and Robb jerks away, reaching up to smooth at his hair. “A Snow! Better a bastard greenlander than a trueborn one.”

Greyjoy watches as Robb is tugged off the upper deck and led off. Across the horizon, the clouds are dark and there’s a clap of distant thunder. It starts to rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Once more, have some chapter insights. 
> 
> 1\. This chapter's song is the Main Theme from Starz’s Black Sails. It is a show that I highly recommend (Toby Stephens is my fav Jon Connington fancast, haha) and is one of several main inspirations for the narrative and mood of this story. The plot for the Lannister gold heist is heavily inspired by the season one plot to find the L’Urca de Lima. Other B-side songs for this chapter are the Assassin’ Creed 4: Black Flag soundtrack, especially Fare Thee Well, Under the Black Flag, and In This World or the One Below. 
> 
> 2\. The dream sequence for this chapter is one of my favorite parts and it actually was completely unplanned when I was outlining this chapter. Obviously, this is quite an ominous dream that mirrors the tragic fate for the Starks in book and show canon. We'll be seeing the Stark family again in chapter six (spoilers?) and seeing what on earth is up with them in King's Landing in the wake of Robb's kidnapping.
> 
> 3\. Next week's chapter is going to be hopefully a bit longer than this week, as it's going to span the course of several weeks at sea and serve as a psuedo-training montage into learning to sail. I have a lot of research to do on 17th century ship mechanics, but hopefully it won't be too complicated to write. We'll be seeing more of Theon, Dagmer, and the rest of the crew next time! 
> 
> As always, thanks to all who left comments and kudos last week. It makes my day to read comments and I hope it's equally fun to read my replies! To those who celebrate Christmas and Kwanzaa, I hope you all enjoy this upcoming weekend. Hannukah has already ended but I hope those who celebrated it had a lovely time as well. I shall see you all next Friday (hopefully!)


	4. iv. randy dandy oh!

It is not a failure to readjust my sails to fit the waters I find myself in.

Mackenzi Lee, _The Lady’s Guide to Petticoats and Piracy_

“You’re doing it all wrong,” Vickon whines, thumping his head against the gunwale.

Robb, too, wants to desperately split his skull open against the railing, but instead manages a tight: “How am I doing it wrong. I’m following exactly what Wex does.”

“No, no,” the younger Botley says. “It’s—you’re doing an extra loop when you should be doing a round turn and—,” his sentence dissolves into a frustrated whine, like a strangled bird, as he sinks against the deck. “Just watch him again.”

Wex, seemingly unperturbed, makes another bowline knot, slender fingers dancing along the rope. His movements are delicate and confident, and once again too fast to follow. With a silent smile, Wex slides over this new example and waits expectantly to watch Robb’s next attempt.

First, take the end. Tuck it behind the remaining length of the rope. Then, make a loop and pass the end through. Hesitantly, Robb makes a second loop, and Wex leans forward abruptly, watching his hands intently. Slowly, Robb passes the end over the front—Wex moves back again, frowning—of the remaining rope and pulls. The knot does not cinch the smooth, sliding way that it should, and instead Robb has tied himself another knot, just the incorrect one.

“This is fucking painful to watch,” Harlon says, shaking his head. He takes a sip of ale, swishes it about in his mouth. “Even Vickon picked up this stuff faster.”

“Hey! Watch it.”

“I’ve got the double half hitch down,” Robb replies. It’s a poor defense and all of them know it. Even Wex raises a brow, as if to say _ironborn babes come out of the womb having tied their cords in a double half hitch, you’re not terribly special._

That’s probably not what he’s trying to convey, but Robb is feeling especially petty today.

Greyjoy’s cabin boy was born mute, or so that’s what the rest of the crew says. Robb spent an entire evening trying to talk to him at supper before Dagmer clapped an oppressive hand on his shoulder and said: “The lad can’t speak. ‘Tis a blessing in disguise, for if the little bastard could talk, he’d be more insufferable than Theon.” 

It seems to be a true assessment. Despite his silence, Wex is remarkably expressive with his eyes and brow, and his sarcastic, cheeky attitude comes off of him in palpable waves. He knows a handful of rudimentary signs—most of them insults—which he employs frequently with a placid smile.

“Did you hear that captain?” Harlon yells across the deck. Greyjoy looks up from his maps, huddled over them with his navigator, Gevin Harlaw, who despite his thick spectacles and scholarly appearance is as clever with a handaxe as he is with a set of navigator’s tools. “Snow here has mastered the double half hitch!”

“That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard!”

Robb scowls, and he can see Greyjoy’s wide smirk all the way from the foremast. “Vickon is a terrible teacher!”

Harlon’s younger brother jumps up with a mock shout and throws himself at his brother. Five years older and stronger, he keeps Vickon away with ease, one hand firmly pressed at his brother’s chest. He’s got a smile on his face, and the younger Botley looks close to breaking out in laughter.

They remind him sometimes of Bran and little Rickon; Robb picks apart his knot a little too forcefully.

Greyjoy tilts his head. “Aren’t you the one supposed to be teaching, Harlon? I suggest you get your act together and actually work on teaching our new greenlander how to sail.”

There’s humor behind his words but it’s undercut by a firm tone that Robb is quickly learning to recognize as Greyjoy’s captain voice. Harlon looks a bit sheepish, setting his ale down against the deck. He slides to join them on the planks and tugs the rope out of Robb’s hand.

“Alright, so look. First you—um, well—”

Harlon does an even worse job of explaining it than Wex does, and the boy is mute. In the process of trying to break it down step-by-step for Robb, even he seems to get confused by his explanation, and they both end up with a knot that does not nearly resemble the bowline they’re supposed to be attempting.

“I can’t stand by and watch this farce continue,” a voice interjects. Robb and Harlon look up and meet the gaze of Maron Botley, mouth is twisted in displeasure beneath his thick beard. “Get going, all of you,” he says, kicking at the boys. “My own sons—,” he murmurs under his breath. “Pathetic.”

He kneels down next to Robb and takes the rope into his calloused hands. Old Botley, or Fishwhiskers, as a few of the older men call him, is a burly man with a long mass of sun-bleached blond hair. Harlon and Vickon must take after their mother, with their brown locks, but they both have his nose, and the younger Botley shares his eyes.

“Watch closely,” Maron says. “This is the most important knot you can learn. If you do it right, a bowline will never slip or come loose, and it can hold it’s own through the strongest of storms. First, you need to cross the length over like a ‘q’—you can read, right lad? You know what the letter looks like?”

“I can read,” Robb replies, frowning. “It’s one of the first things my father had me learn.”

Maron gives him a long. “Most fathers wouldn’t teach their bastard sons how to read. I know I wouldn’t bother.”

Robb bites at his tongue. Maron is one of the few people that know his true name, and yet the mistake irks him. Playing a bastard is exhausting—the insults, his presumed ignorance, the comments on his character. Even pirates deride bastards, although it seems more in good cheer than anything inherently malicious. If he was back in King’s Landing, at the royal court, it would have been unbearable.

Is this how Jon always felt?

“I was lucky,” The charade must continue. “My father loved my mother very much.”

“Make that q-shape with the rope—very good.” Botley continues. “Pass the end back through _behind_ the loop. The position is important. Thread it loosely, not all the way through. See, you’ve made a second loop. Good. Now pass a bit of the short end behind the rest of the rope and bring it up _over_ and thread it between your original loop. Now, pull.”

Robb tugs the rope loosely, and before his eyes the rope consolidates into something resembling the masterfully woven example Wex had presented him with. “Not bad,” Maron muses. “For a greenlander, anyways.”

“You’re a good teacher.”

Maron shrugs. “I raised six sons. Now, practice that over and over. Try to speed it up. If you’re ever in a storm, you’ll need to be quick about securing the sails.”

“Thank you,” Robb says. Old Botley looks a bit uncomfortable with his sincerity and shuffles on his feet, grumbling. He leaves Robb sitting on the deck and climbs up into the rigging, becoming a small speck in the sky.

Robb continues to practice, unravelling and retying his strand of rope silently. Today, the ocean is a gleaming sapphire, brilliant under the sun. There’s a steady breeze that feels delightfully refreshing against the heat. After a week at sea, Robb’s skin is red and peeling, with his shoulders as a painful, ugly red mess of skin. Even Stygg, who only ever graces Robb with blatant glares, had looked sympathetic to his plight.

Try as he might, the crew of the _Sea Bitch_ is obnoxiously more likable than a band of reavers should be. Harlon swears more than anyone Robb has ever met, but he’s clever and witty and snores in his bunk down in the hold. Vickon is the same age as Sansa, and they have that same idealistic glint in their eyes. Where his sister saw only the beauty in the court of King’s Landing, the younger Botley idolizes a life on the seas, reaving and razing. Each night in the hold, Robb sways in his hammock, and reminds himself over and over that they’re all thieves and murderers, stealing from hardworking, honest men. And yet, they are fathers and brothers and friends to one another.

Stygg and Urzen and Todric drink and tell loud stories about their wild adventures as younger men, and sometimes Robb laughs at an anecdote before realizing he’s smiling about the murder of innocents. Rymolf recalls his first reaving on Bear Island and Robb listens, enraptured, before he remembers Dacey and Alysane, Lyra and Jorelle, and little Lyanna Mormont’s fierce temper.

It makes him feel dirty, corrupted in a way that King’s Landing never managed to do. What would Father think? Or Jon?

Robb shakes his head and ties another knot. Cadwyl approaches and asks for a demonstration. He nods, satisfied, and then sets to help Robb practice securing them, offering the end of his spear.

Across the deck, Harlon and Vickon are huddled together in quiet conversation, one arm slung around Wex, whose dark bright eyes flicker rapidly between the two brothers. They break apart abruptly, Vickon running below deck, Wex scrabbling up into the rigging, and Harlon slinking over to speak with Stygg and Urzen near the prow.

“Wex!” Vickon shouts, emerging from the deck with a browning apple, a small wooden disk, and a pockmarked wooden beam. He slings the brown apple up into the air, and Wex catches it by his fingertips, hanging off of the Jacob’s ladder.

Abruptly, Harlon appears before him, and tugs Robb up to his feet. He claps a hand on his shoulder, “We’re having a marksmanship contest. You’ll want to watch.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You really are determined to never be any fucking fun, aren’t you Snow?”

Robb scowls. “I don’t exist to entertain you, despite what the rest of you seem to think.”

“You forget,” Harlon says, pulling sharply on his hair. “That bastards are meant to serve their betters. Now stand here, I’m doing you a favor.”

A small crowd has amassed around the mainmast. Vickon has set the wooden beam up against the foremast, and Wex has secured the disk up on forecourse. The apple dangles by a string on the edge of the topsail, spinning slowly in the breeze.

“Alright!” Harlon says to the crowd, leaping up onto the gunwale. Apart from Greyjoy and his navigator—still locked in quiet discussion on the upper deck—the entire crew has gathered, even Dagmer, who smokes a thick pipe. “We all know the rules! Three shots. In quick succession. Beam, disk, then the apple—if you get that far. Winner takes ten silver stags.”

Rymolf is the first contender. His handaxe embeds itself into the wood beam but sails past the wood disc. Cadwyl follows with his blades, hitting the first two marks and missing the apple by a mile. Todric, flushed from the drink, drunkenly staggers to his feet, and throws a dagger that flies dangerously close to Dagmer’s face. Stygg has to drag him below deck, confiscating his skein of wine. Harlon pulls out an iron pistol, makes the first shot, misses the second, and sits down on the deck to pout. Urzen takes a shot with long rifle, two hits and a miss.

“The lot of you are putting on a terrible show.” Robb glances up to see Greyjoy and Harlaw looming over them.

“Come to ruin our fun, captain?” Urzen says.

Greyjoy quirks a brow. “Ruin your fun? I could never.” He pulls out his silver pistol, gleaming in the sunlight, and smirks. “I’ve come to compete.”

His crew groan and grumble and Greyjoy laughs. “What? Am I not allowed to have fun?”

“You’re too good,” Harlan grouses. “It kills the mood. We all know none of us are as skilled as you are.”

“Well, the greenlander hasn’t had a shot,” Cadwyl says, brow furrowed in thought. 

Vickon shakes Robb by his shoulder. “Right! Let Robb try!”

“Sounds fair,” Greyjoy twists his hand and offers the end of his pistol. Hesitantly, he takes it, feeling the weight in his hand, eyes flickering to Dagmer, who is watching him intently, hand gripping tightly at his own gun. “Give it a go, Snow.” 

Greyjoy settles himself against the mainmast, arms crossed, and head tilted down. Robb turns, blinking against the sun, and aims the pistol towards the wood beam. It’s a straight shot, simple even, and he pulls the trigger, watching the bullet land in the wood beam.

The second shot is more at an angle, and Robb needs to tilt his aim higher. It lands as well, to a chorus of murmured hums. He fires for the last time, but the apple remains swaying in the sea breeze, untouched by any member of the crew.

“Good show,” Greyjoy tugs his pistol out of Robb’s grasp. “Now watch.”

In rapid succession, the silver pistol fires three times. Two shots embedding in wood and the third causing the apple to explode into a stringy mess of pulp and skin. His lips quirk up in a smirk as he turns, spinning his pistol in his fingers before tucking it back into the holster. “My stags, if you please, Harlon.”

Botley grumbles and presses a handful of silver coins into his palm. “And for the rest of you,” he continues. “Clean this up and get back to work. Not you, Snow. Stay here.”

He waits a moment, watching Harlon and Dagmer talk to their captain while Wex and Vickon bring everything back to the hold. His hands fiddle absentmindedly at the rope, twisting it between his fingers.

And then, a shadow.

“Show me your bowline,” Greyjoy says. He leans over Robb’s shoulder, breath ghosting against the side of his neck. He’s uncomfortably close but doesn’t step away.

Robb’s fingers move along the rope—twist, turn, loop, pull—and there, a finished bowline knot. “Good enough for you, Greyjoy?”

“There’s room for improvement,” he says. Somehow, he leans in even close and whispers. “Good work, _Stark.”_ And then pulls away, spinning on his heel to make his way back up to the helm

A week passes. His skin stops burning so easily, turning freckled and tanned. The salt had ruined his uniform, and he’s taken to wearing just lighter linens, his coat turned into sweat scraps and rags.

Robb masters the bowline, the clove hitch, the marlinspike and scaffold knot. Harlon had him learn the handcuff knot just for the fun of it and the pair of them tie up Vickon, who spends half of an hour caterwauling until Fishwhiskers cuts his son free.

He’s graduated to the sails and rigging. Cadwyl guides him through the elaborate series of ropes and pulleys, how to use the knots in practice. His long, sun-spotted face quirks up in quiet praise whenever Robb adjusts the canvas correctly or crosses the mast beams without any aid. Maron tests him on the names of each sail, reciting them in order and back from memory. Course sail, topsail, topgallant. Staysail, royal, skysail. Jib and spanker. The fore and mizzen varieties.

Dagmer claims there is to be a storm today, so his bones tell him. While the morning had been clear, the weather has rapidly changed—sky dark and stormy, water a murky grey and tumultuous. It hasn’t started to rain, but there’s the sound of thunder on the horizon and the breeze is picking up.

The canvas has come down, and the _Sea Bitch_ looks unusually empty without her billowing black sails. Instead, Robb and Harlon are raising the stormsail, while Wex and Vickon rig up the stormjib.

Stygg is leading the round as the rest of the crew bring down the canvas, pulling down rope rigging to the rhythm. Despite his grim demeanor, his singing voice is oddly pleasant to the ear, ringing loud and true over the water. “Now you’re ready to sail for the arm!”

On the other side of the spar, Harlon mumbles under his breath, “Weigh, hey, roll and go,” along with the other men as they pull in rhythm. The main course comes down from the mast and pools against the deck like ink.

“Our boots and our clothes, boys, are all in the pawn!”

“To be rollicking—,”

“Randy dandy, oh,” Robb finishes, in a low whisper. He glances up towards Harlon, but the other man doesn’t look like he heard the sound of Robb’s muttering. Those are the only words he knows from this song, and he’s picked up a handful of other lyrics from nearly a dozen other shanties that the ironborn sing.

The False and the Fair. Fair Maids of Summer. The Bloody Cup. Willum’s Wife. Stygg rotates through an entire arsenal of songs but Robb likes these ones best. In the hold one evening, while Robb reluctantly bit into a grey chunk of salted beef, Vickon had excitedly explained that the shanty keeps rhythm. Robb hears them most often when the crew works on the halyards or sung just to pass the time.

With a quick final bowline, Robb fixes his end of the stormsail to it’s stay. Harlon slides along the mast, glances over his work with an appreciative nod, and then, gripping onto a rope pulley, tips himself off the beam and plummets down to the deck.

“Come on, Snow!” He yells up, voice faint in the rising wind.

Robb stands, and the blood rushes up to his ears, louder than the wind. It’s getting stronger as the skies get darker, whipping at his hair and clothes. Dark water surrounds the ship like a void, and suddenly Robb is acutely aware of how clammy his feet are, slick against the wood beam.

A particularly large scream of wind threatens to rip Robb down from the sky, and so with his heart in his throat, he leaps, grabbing onto the rope ladder.

How does Bran do this? How does he possibly enjoy it? He’s watched his younger brother climb up to even more dizzying heights than this, and briefly, Robb understands how his mother must feel.

He descends to the deck just as the first droplets of rain begin to fall. Wex and Vickon are already standing with Harlon. Putting up two sails is quicker than taking down a dozen, and so the four of them have been assigned to the galley. As they make their way below, Robb glances up towards the upper deck.

Greyjoy stands at the helm, one hand gripping tight at the wood. Wet with rain, the leather of his coat turns into a black pool of ink, rippling and dripping in the dim light. His dark hair is pulled back away from his face. Peeking out from his furrowed brow, his black eyes are set, focused. With the rest of the men taking down the sails, the upper deck is deserted; Greyjoy stands alone against the storm.

A weight settles upon his curls as Harlon pushes Robb’s head down below the awning. “Get moving, Snow. We don’t want to be up here when the storm truly starts.”

They descend. Devoid of windows, the hold is always dark, dimly lit by whatever sunlight penetrates the grates and stairway. In preparation for the storm, the metal grates have been covered with planking, and Harlon pulls the doors closed behind them. For a moment, the hold becomes as dark as the Winterfell crypts. Screaming wind, muffled by the wood walls, almost sounds like the whistle of a winter storm.

The ship pitches, and the moment is broken. Robb stumbles into the wall and he can hear Vickon’s laughter echoing through the narrow hall. Wex tugs him by his sleeves through the hold to the galley, where Harlon lights an oil lamp, casting the small space of the galley in hues of amber.

“What are we eating tonight, Wex?” Vickon asks, smiling broadly. In the dim light, Robb watches Harlon roll his eyes.

Greyjoy’s cabin boy spins and bows low, elaborately gesturing to a large barrel. He looks up at them with his clever eyes, and smirks. _Why, my lords,_ his expression says. _We dine only on the finest of salted beef and the toughest hardtack ever seen on the Summer Sea!_

Harlon shoves past Wex and works at popping off the lid of the barrel. “Can you two cut it out? You do this every other night.”

The younger Botley pouts, but after a masterfully executed look of brotherly disapproval, scurries off with Wex to get the hardtack. With a pop of air, the lid of the barrel opens and floods the room with the smell of salt and brine. Robb grimaces, and chokes down a gag.

“Give me a hand, Snow.”

“Not strong enough to move it on your own?”

“Fuck off,” Harlon says. Robb walks over anyways.

Salted beef has the appetizing appearance of rotting leather, black and grey and brown hunks of meat marinating in a brine saltier than ocean water. It refuses to rot, although Robb thinks that it already looks decayed, bobbing in the brine like dead fish in water. As he helps Harlon lift it, the smell becomes overwhelming.

“It’s not that bad,” Harlon comments as Robb gags audibly. “Get over yourself.”

“You’re used to it. It’s awful.”

“Well, it’s all we’ve got until we make port.”

The younger boys have the hardtack set up on the makeshift counter, unwrapping it from strips of torn linens. Some are black and coarse, like they were once part of a sail. Others are cream and silk or embroidered and richly dyed, torn from expensive clothes. Robb pushes Vickon over to help his brother with the meat, sliding to help Wex place the hardtack on an assemblage of mismatched plates.

Slowly, the other members of the crew trickle in. Cadwyl. Rymolf. Maron and Dagmer. Stygg, Urzen, and Todric enter with roaring laughter, holding a giant skein of wine between the three of them. Each take a plate and sit down in the cramped galley, some perched up on barrels and crates, others on the floor. Robb stands and picks at his food, leaning against the counter with Harlon, Vickon, and Wex.

“You know,” the younger Botley starts, a chunk of grey meat in his mouth. “I’ve never asked but what part of the greenland are you from, Robb?”

“Are you stupid? His last name is Snow.”

“Shut it! How am I supposed to know what greenlanders call their bastards?”

Wex meets Robb’s eyes and slowly raises a brow.

“I’m from the North,” he says, interrupting the two brothers.

“You don’t look it,” Harlon says. “Look more like a Riverlander.”

“What do you mean?”

Across the counter, Wex lifts up a hand and tugs at his dark, stringy hair. _Don’t see many northmen with red hair,_ his eyes say, smirking.

“It’s rare,” Robb starts, stumbling. “That’s all it is. What do you know about the North anyways?”

“Every ironborn lad reaves near the Stony Shore. It’s a rite of passage of sorts, I suppose.”

“Well,” Vickon says. “You sound Northern, at least. You say your ‘o’s all funny.”

“I don’t!”

“You do,” Harlon smiles into his ale, drinking deep. “Did you know,” he starts slowly. “Our eldest brother was killed by northmen.”

He says it like the most casual thing in the world. Robb blinks, reeling. “I’m sorry,” he answers automatically. Was it one of Father’s men? A Glover? A Mormont, maybe.

“Don’t be, he was stupid—,”

“And an ass!” Vickon adds, crowing. “Tris is much better suited as heir.”

His elder brother cuffs him up the head. “Don’t let da hear you say that. Him and Harren were close.”

“He’s close to all of us.”

“Aye, that’s true. And he even has room in his heart for our dear little bastard cousin, doesn’t he?” Harlon ruffles Wex’s hair, and the cabin boy opens his mouth in a silent laugh, teeth flashing in the warm light.

“The North is a long way from King’s Landing,” Vickon tilts his head. “How did you end up there, Robb?”

He roughly swallows down a piece of hardtack, feeling it pass slowly and painfully through his throat. Robb coughs once and reaches for a sip of ale. In Winterfell, they imported sweet wines from the South. King’s Landing and the court supped daily on Dornish reds and Arbor golds. Even then, Robb preferred water, or sweeter juice, and the bitter taste of ale still is hard to swallow down.

“I needed work,” he lies. “My brother and I are of a similar age, so we came to King’s Landing and planned to join the navy together.” This one, a truth. “He hated it in the city—I did too. There’s too many people—,”

“And it smells like shit.”

Robb laughs. “It does. You should have heard the way he complained about it. Jon never stopped brooding. We enlisted shortly afterward. I was assigned to the guard and he went to the navy—but now I’m here.”

“What happened to your brother?”

Robb swallows. “He died.”

The door the galley slams open like a crack of thunder. Shadowed in the doorway, Greyjoy stands soaked and dripping with seawater. His dark hair is plastered against his skin in black tendrils, writhing like the tentacles on his banner. He makes his way towards the counter, nodding at his crew, before stopping near Wex.

“Get me some food,” he says to his cabin boy. “And get a set of fresh clothes ready in my quarters.”

Nodding, Wex mutely darts out of sight. Greyjoy settles against the wall, water dripping down his face and on the floor. “What are you up to, lads?”

Harlon passes his mug over to Greyjoy, grinning. “Snow here was telling us a boring old story about his brother.”

“Only because I had to hear about yours,” Robb snaps back. He instantly regrets mentioning Jon, blood simmering with rage. _That’s what you get for opening up to a bunch of reavers,_ he thinks. _Never should have expected anything different._

“We’ve all got dead brothers,” Harlon snips. “It’s not terribly interesting. Probably a good thing he’s dead if he’s a bastard like you.”

The world goes red as the ship rolls with a particularly large wave. Robb lunges across the counter and reels back when Vickon tugs him back by his shirt and slams him against a beam.

“Harlon,” the younger Botley hisses, hand pressed against Robb’s chest.

“Oh, you were talking about Harren? I hated that bastard,” Greyjoy says brightly. Wex reappears to slide over a plate, and he takes a quick bite of hardtack. Robb bitterly watches the movement of his jaw, and the muscles of his throat as he swallows.

“We all did. Was an annoying, stupid prat.”

“Sounds just like you, Botley,” Robb bites.

Harlon’s eyes flash dangerously, raising his fist, but before anything happens, Theon barks out a bright laugh. “Harlon! You’ve gone and upset my greenlander.”

“I’ll make him even more upset when I knock out those pretty teeth of his,” Botley growls.

Theon’s smile fades. “You’re dismissed, Botley.”

“What?”

“Do I need to repeat myself? Fuck off, go on a walk around the hold.”

Harlon storms out of the galley wordlessly; Vickon snaps his gaping mouth shut and says, “I’ll go make sure he doesn’t break anything, Theon.”

“Good lad,” Greyjoy replies, taking another bite of his food.

Robb stands there, lingering, unsure if he should leave or stay. The pirate keeps eating in silence, not even deigning to glance his way. His anger has passed, with an embarrassed calmness settling over him in waves.

“You seem to be getting along with the crew.”

“He gets on my nerves—!”

“I’m not talking about Harlon,” Greyjoy interrupts, gesturing into the air. “The crew—they like you. Cadwyl and Fishwhiskers are especially pleased with your progress.”

“And what’s it to you?”

“I’m the captain. Everything is my business.” A smile. “There’s nothing wrong with it. Just never thought I’d see an _honorable_ man like you get friendly with reavers. Maybe we’ll make an ironborn out of you yet.”

Maybe it’s meant to be teasing, but Robb’s blood freezes as a chill settles over his heart. It’s true. He is getting too friendly with them all. His body feels light, as if the roaring wind could rip him up into the air and spinning in the storm.

“I’m not—I’m not like you,” he manages. “I’ll never be like you.”

Greyjoy raises a brow. “Oh?” His tone is always so light, casual, laced with a smile.

“The lot of you are murderers and thieves. I’ll never stoop to your level.”

“You don’t need to remind me. But if that’s true, why are you being so friendly with my boys? Not very honorable to be a hypocrite, is it?”

Robb bites his tongue until he tastes blood. He desperately wants to slam his tin plate into Greyjoy’s face. Across the room, Dagmer is watching their exchange with sharp eyes. He would be dead before he moved. There’s nothing he can do, and the most damnable thing of all is that Greyjoy is right.

A hand darts out and grabs Robb by his sleeves, pushing up the fabric and grasping at his skin. “You look like one of us already,” Greyjoy says, turning Robb’s palm over. His skin is tanned a rich color by the sun, callouses forming on his palms. “If Stannis Baratheon sailed up and took the ship this very moment, do you think he’d believe that you’re some kidnapped little nobleman? He’d execute you with the rest of us.”

Greyjoy smiles, and the sight of is ugly, stretched sharp and wide over his angular face. “Get over yourself, Snow. You aren’t as honorable as you think you are, rubbing elbows with lowly pirates.”

Robb rips his hand out of his grasp and storms out of the galley. He can hear Greyjoy’s laughter behind him, taunting and arrogant. Thunder crashes as the ship pitches in the water; Robb stumbles in the dark, sliding against the walls as he makes his way to the hold.

Harlon is already in his bunk when Robb arrives, his younger brother nowhere to be seen. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he can see Botley’s face screwed up in amusement. “Did Theon piss you off?” At Robb’s silent glare, he says, “I’ll take that as a yes. He’s awfully good at that.”

He climbs into his hammock, which sways and pitches with the ship like a cradle. The sound of waves crashing against the hull and distant thunder are his lullaby. As he starts to drift off, Harlon’s voice breaks the silence. “I’m sorry. I forget not everyone has a shitty relationship with their brothers.”

“You seem to get along with Vickon,” Robb says, eyes still shut.

“I love Vickon. My other brothers, too. I would kill a thousand men to protect them all.” For a moment, he reminds Robb of Jon, as horrified as his brother would have been by the comparison. “But I never loved Harren. He was cruel, and it was a happy day when he died.”

Robb can’t imagine such a thing, feeling joy at the loss of a brother. He opens his mouth to speak when Harlon continues, “I thought about how I would feel if Vickon died, and I realize now that I shouldn’t have said that about your brother. I’m sorry you lost him.” 

Tears prick at his eyes, and in the darkness of the hold, Robb lets them escape, dripping down into his hair. He coughs, trying to keep his voice steady. “So am I.”

“I like you, Snow,” Botley says softly. He sounds oddly young. “Would you like to be friends? Keep the younger boys in line with me.”

Something like insidious and dark curls up within Robb’s chest, festering with guilt in the darkness of the hold as he earnestly says, “Yes.”

After the storm passes, they sail for another week in perfect weather. Sunshine glitters off calm water. No clouds grace the sky, which stretches out bright and clear before them. A calm and clear horizon, the sea a glimmering gem. The canvas sails flap in the wind, prow skimming prettily over the water.

Robb sits on the deck, back leaning against the gunwale, a large pile of rope in his lap. He’s meant to be braiding rope, but he keeps getting distracted by Wex and Vickon, who have decided today to discover who is faster at climbing up to the crow’s nest.

“Alright!” Harlon says, waving a scrap of fabric in his hands. “First to the top wins. Cheating is allowed, as long as either of you don’t push the other to their death. Loser gets dish duty for a week.”

Wex sticks out his tongue at the younger Botley, who is stretched out and ready to break into a sprint. Harlon snaps down the fabric flag with a sarcastic flourish and immediately turns to go talk to his father. The two younger boys break into a sprint, throwing their selves up into the rope latticing.

Robb returns to his work. The coarse rope burns at his fingers as he twists it into shape. He’s been working on it for nearly two hours now, and he still has half of the length to go. Cursing under his breath, Robb flexes his fingers to relieve the ache in his joints.

“Having fun?” A familiar voice says. Greyjoy leans over him, dark hair framing his face.

Robb has spent most of the last week dancing around Greyjoy, taking his meals alone in the hold, taking on extra lessons from Cadwyl, and in one memorable instance, used Harlon as a literal shield to escape. The pirate captain seems determined to dog his every step, to no avail.

“Why are you talking to me?”

A pout. “I’m the captain. I do what I want.”

“I don’t remember joining your crew.”

“As long as you’re on my ship, you’re a member of my kingdom.”

That gets a reaction out of him. Robb looks up at him incredulously. “What?”

“Among the ironborn, each captain is a king, and his ship is his kingdom. You have to listen to me.”

“Is that so?” Robb deadpans. “Should I call you Your Majesty, as well?”

“You could. I wouldn’t complain. But that’s the beauty of it—the sea,” Greyjoy says, throwing his arms up against the sea breeze. “Is the land of ten thousand kings!”

Robb considers the merits of throwing himself overboard. No more salt beef, no more braiding rope, he’d never have to look upon Greyjoy’s face again. “Tell that to Robert Baratheon,” he hums, returning to his work.

“C’mon Snow, the philosophy of it really is quite beautiful once you think about it—”

“So, tell me again: why are you speaking to me?”

Greyjoy frowns, fidgeting at the cuffs of his linen shirt, moving in the breeze. “There’s no need to be such an insufferable ass. I’ve come to make amends.”

“Amends.” Robb replies flatly. He looks up to glance briefly at Greyjoy, before searching for Wex and Vickon, who are tiny figures darting up through the rigging. They’re past the main course now, but he can’t quite tell who’s in the lead.

“You’re a useful asset to my crew,” Greyjoy starts. “Even if you aren’t truly a part of it. There’s no need to be ashamed of being friendly with my men. I’d rather you get along with them than be torn to shreds by the lot of them.”

“This is a terrible apology.”

“I’m not trying to apologize to you. I said nothing wrong.” Robb bites his cheek again, hard. “I’m trying to reassure your honorable ego. Every ironborn learns that you either sink or swim. If you had decided to make an enemy of my crew, they would have thrown you overboard to drown and I would have let them.”

Greyjoy pauses, thoughtful. “Instead, you’ve endeared yourself to some of my closest friends and advisors. Learned how to contribute instead of sinking like deadweight. If life is sink or swim, you’re definitely swimming, Snow. Like the fish on your mother’s sigil. There’s something admirable about that, I think. Maybe even honorable.” 

“Are you sure you know what that word means,” Robb says. Greyjoy laughs and smiles. It’s not sharp, nor cruel, and it settles easily over his face.

He does have a nice smile, Robb thinks. For a pirate, at least.

“Are we good, Snow?”

“You kidnapped me and are holding me for ransom,” Robb answers. “I don’t think we’ll ever be _good.”_

Greyjoy shrugs. “Of course, but other than that?”

“Fine,” he concedes. “We’re good, Greyjoy.”

The other stretches out a hand, “Call me Theon.”

Reluctantly, Robb takes it, and the pirate pulls him up to his feet, clapping a hand against his shoulder. The rope spills out to the deck, and Robb glances down at it in dismay.

“Captain!” Vickon’s voice rings out loud and true from the crow’s nest, one arm pointing out towards the horizon. Wex is up there with him, a pale splotch against the sapphire sky. “Land on the horizon!”

Theon turns abruptly and Robb follows his gaze out to sea. A grey splotch of color drifts above the water in the distance, fuzzy and shapeless, but present, nonetheless. After such a long time at sea, the sight of something on the horizon is disquieting, disrupting the unbroken ocean. Robb watches Theon’s face split into a grin. “Pyke,” he says, oddly soft, wind threatening to overpower his voice. “We’re home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO AND HAPPY LATE NEW YEAR! I hope everyone is enjoying the first few days of 2021!! Apologies for the delay in getting this up, this was a long one and also the holidays took up a lot of time! Here are some chapter insights: 
> 
> 1\. This chapter's song is Randy Dandy Oh! As it appears on the Assassin's Creed Black Flag Sea Shanty album, sung by Sean Dagher. The original lyrics say "sail for the horn", which is a reference to the horn of south america, I believe. I changed it to "the arm" as a reference to the Arm of Dorne. I love sea shanties, and I wanted to include them in this fic.
> 
> 2\. I watched so many knot tying tutorial videos for this chapter. It fucked up my youtube recommendations, that's how many I watched. 
> 
> 3\. This is the "learns to sail" portion of the fic description. I did a lot of ship research into the process of 1600's sailing ships. The Sea Bitch is a three-masted barque, or at least, that is how I describe it. Storm sails are a real thing, and salt beef is apparently like...super unappetizing. 
> 
> 4\. This chapter is something of the Robb and Harlon Botley show, because I think Robb should have friends. Pardon me for writing about all the supporting characters more than Theon. If it reassures you at all, next chapter is a Theon chapter.
> 
> 5\. I have started university once more, so updates MAY take a bit more time. I am hoping to stick to this weekly schedule for at least a while longer as it was my New Year's resolution to write something every week. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and leaving kudos! Getting comments is really fun for me and I also get a chance to gush more about my own fic meta, haha. Take care!


	5. v. ironborn shores

There is a place not far from here where strong men live lives of pleasure, not labor, a place where you could be feared and respected once again. Follow me, and I will show you what life is.

Charles Vane, _Black Sails_

Pyke is a sight for sore eyes.

It’s not the same one from Theon’s childhood, no—that one was burned and broken by privateers bearing the royal standard. Seaworth had betrayed his kind in exchange for a lordship and brought Stannis Baratheon’s wroth down upon them all. Ships were smashed to pieces by royal cannon fire and sunk to the bottom of the stormy sea, dragging Rodrik and Maron down to their watery graves.

The Old Pyke is lost, with its sharp stony shores, and stormy skies. Theon remembers their old ancestral seat with its towering wave-worn walls, stabbing up into the sky like the masts of ships, banners hanging in the wind like sails. Slick black stone covered in vibrant green moss that lingered even during the winter. It had looked so small the day they left, stone towers toppled, ships burning on the water. Vanishing into the horizon like it never existed while Theon and Asha were bundled up tightly in their mother’s arms as she silently wept.

He wouldn’t be able to find it on a map, although Dagmer and Asha could. It had been somewhere stormy and grey. Harsh and cold. A place where Theon shivered during winter storms and wrapped himself up in his mother’s skirts to hide from his brothers.

Rodrik and Maron probably haunt the place now. It would be fitting—a pair of dismal cruel men trapped in a harsh and cold place.

Despite the opinions of the older ironborn, Theon thinks the new Pyke is the better of the two. It’s a warm, beautiful place, with willowy palms and golden sand. The skies are nearly always a vibrant blue, and the ocean a glittering cerulean. A place of sun and heat, prosperity and opportunity. One day, it will be Theon’s kingdom, even if he has to rip it out from his father’s iron grip through charm and wit.

He brings the _Sea Bitch_ into the harbor, as the crew begin their tried-and-true routine of preparing the ship for port. Pyke’s dock is a flurry of activity, men yelling and moving cargo, overwhelmed with the smell of fresh food and fish, stolen spices. Looted bolts of Myrish lace and richly dyed silks wave in the air. Robb Stark stands near the gunwale, eyes wide as they flicker around the port, ignoring Harlon, who impatiently tugs a length of rope out of his hands.

Perhaps he’s impressed by the ships, awed to see so many in one place. Baratheon has an impressive naval force, but the fleet is split between the harbors of Lannisport, Storm’s End, and Dragonstone and only muster en masse in times of war. Theon spots the familiar ironborn ships, _Dagger_ and _Fingerdancer. Grief_ and swift _Headless Jeyne. Nightflyer_ waves the vairy vert and sable of House Blacktyde. The _Great Kraken_ towers over all the ships in the harbor, the iron kraken ram clinging to the hull glowing in the sunlight. Moored next to his father’s flagship is Asha’s _Black Wind,_ bobbing in the water. They make a pretty pair, black hulls with golden trims, inky canvas blotting out the blue sky. It would be an even prettier sight to have the _Sea Bitch_ anchored at their side, but there is cargo to be unloaded, and Theon instead brings the ship into the other side of the harbor.

“Men!” He shouts into the wind. His crew all turn to him, looking up to behold their captain at the helm. “Unload the cargo and send it up to my nuncle. The Reader should buy from us at a fair price. Then, the evening is all yours, lads!”

A hearty cheer goes up through the crew, and Theon grins. “Dag,” he says. “Take my greenlander here and find my sister. You know her usual spot.” He reaches into his coat pocket and takes out a slender scroll of parchment. “And find a way to get this to King’s Landing.”

“What about you, boy?” Dagmer asks, carefully tucking the paper out of sight.

“I’m going to speak to the Lord Reaper.”

Cleftjaw’s face pinches up—it’s so fascinating still, to see the way his four lips twitch, like he’s viewing it through a distorted mirror—and he frowns. “If you were to ask for my opinion, which I—,”

“I’m not.”

“—which I note you’re not, I’d say you should speak to your sister first.”

“The sea and stars do not revolve around Asha. The Lord Reaper has a son, too.”

“I’m aware of your status, boy,” Dagmer snaps. Theon blinks in surprise and then crosses his arms. “But your sister is the elder and the more experienced—don’t start, it’s true. You are a skilled captain, but still young. Inexperienced in ways. Get Asha to back you, and the Lord Reaper will see your promise.”

“This is my plan, and mine alone. I won’t be able to prove anything to my father when all the credit will go to Asha, and once again, the rest of you will believe that I’m incompetent.”

“Theon,” Dagmer sighs. “I just don’t want to see you get—,”

Stark, for once, has masterful timing, swinging himself up to the helm. A month at sea has changed him, a far cry now from the man he captured in King’s Landing. Burned by the sun, a smattering of freckles is splayed over the bridge of his nose. His royal uniform has been long discarded—they probably cut up the hideous yellow coat for scraps—and he wears the standard lightweight linens that all crewmen wear. Apart from his auburn hair, he would nearly blend in, at least until he opened his mouth.

“Robb,” he starts. “Good timing. I’m sending you off with Cleftjaw. He’ll manage to keep you safe.”

“Safe? From what?”

“You may look like one of us,” Robb immediately frowns, and Theon smirks at the petulant dismay on his face. “But they’ll figure out that you’re a greenlander soon enough and—,”

“Murder me?” He says flatly.

“Well, that too—I was going to say steal from you. Don’t worry, Dag will take care of you.”

Neither of them looks particularly pleased at that, which Theon decides to take wholehearted pleasure in. Dagmer, with a dour look on his face, seizes Robb by his collar and starts to drag him towards the gangplank.

“Don’t say anything stupid, or—,” he hears Cleftjaw bark before they drift out of earshot.

Theon crosses the deck and leans over the railing to peer down at Harlon as he unloads a barrel of Lyseni spice. Botley glances up, noticing his shadow, and gives him an easy smile. “Theon.”

“Harlon,” he parrots back. “Do me a favor and make sure Cleftjaw doesn’t murder our greenlander. I’ve sent them to find my sister.”

“Sure. It’ll be good to catch up with Tris—he seems to live in her shadow.”

“Never known what he sees in her.”

“Neither do I,” Harlon says, a smirk slowly spreading across his face. “She looks just like you so it’s not like she’s much to look at.”

Theon smiles in mock outrage—although perhaps a little bit of it is genuine and vaults himself over the gunwale and on top of Harlon. They scramble around on the docks for a moment until he loops an arm around Botley’s neck. “Take that back.”

“Oh fuck off,” Harlon wheezes. “You already know you’re my favorite.”

“And it better stay that way,” Theon drops his arm and stands, pulling the other to his feet.

“Off to talk to your father?”

“Aye.”

Harlon rubs at his neck. “Good luck.”

_Thanks,_ he almost says, but instead Theon steels back his shoulders and grins, all bravado. “Don’t need it.”

“If you say so,” Harlon looks like his father for a moment, oddly solemn, and turns back to his work.

Pyke’s port is busy with workmen repairing ships, reavers unloading stolen treasures, boatswains and quartermasters stocking up on fresh provisions. Fish are laid out on drying racks, a group of men on the shore lower a half-cooked chunk of bloody meat into a barrel of salt brine. Blacksmiths labor in the oppressive heat, melting down delicate jewelry and broken swords alike.

As Theon moves away from the docks, laundry starts to be hung up with dried meats and fruits. Children run in the dusty streets, darting between the legs of seasoned warriors, who slap at them half-heartedly. Alehouses and brothels are tucked between shanty homes and board houses. A mangy dog sleeps at the feet of a woman peddling spit-roasted rats, while a group of men sing a mangled version of the False and the Fair in the building next door.

Balon Greyjoy spends most of his time in the old keep at the center of the small island. It’s a remnant of some era long past, stone worn and old, peeking out from the palms. It doubles as a watch tower of sorts, as the highest point on Pyke, although it doesn’t compare to the spires of stone from the fortress of Theon’s childhood.

The men recognize him and let him pass, but as Theon rounds an archway, a hand catches him by the chest and pushes him against the wall. Skeletal and pale, his youngest uncle’s’ gaunt eyes peer out at him from beneath a long mass of salt stiff hair.

“Nephew,” the seaweed in his beard twitches as he speaks. “You’ve returned.”

“I have. Did you know there’s good deal of treasure to be found looting Lyseni traders? I got my hands on the loveliest golden—,”

“I care not for the useless treasures of godless men.”

“Don’t fret,” Theon smiles. His uncle looks thoroughly unimpressed. “I sent many a man down to the Drowned God’s halls out of devotion for my dear uncle.”

“Devote yourself to our god,” Aeron growls, but his mouth almost twitches—it’s hard to tell if it’s a smile or a snarl beneath his long, untrimmed beard. He steps back and drops his hand from Theon’s chest. “Not I.” 

Aeron had been his youngest and most beloved uncle, and Theon, his favorite nephew. He used to hoist Theon up on his shoulders and carry him up to the top of the masts, yelling into the wind. That, of course, had been before he drowned and dour Damphair took his place. They’re only ten years apart and Aeron looks almost as old as Father, bitter and brittle.

Sometimes, Theon likes to think he still catches snippets of lingering affection, as though if he looks hard enough, he can find his wild, carefree uncle hiding beneath all that hair.

“You’ve come to speak to the Lord Reaper.”

“Will he see me?”

“He has the time. My brother’s business with me is over.”

Theon rolls his shoulders. “Well, good. I’ll just head in—,”

“Wait.” He stops in his tracks. Somehow, Aeron seems to frown harder, and he reaches out to grasp at the golden chain around Theon’s neck. It must have shifted, peeking out from beneath his shirt. “Remove this, before you bring down the wrath of your father and Drowned God down upon you.”

“I bought it with the Iron Price,” he protests, stepping back out of his uncle’s reach. Theon had taken it off the body of a Braavosi merchant who had been foolish enough to fight back once they had boarded his ship.

“You are too vain. Full of folly,” his uncle says. “Like the man I once was. This will change.”

He says it so gravely, so seriously, that it almost feels like a threat. The priest moves away; it looks for a moment that he’s gliding over the stone. Theon turns towards the doors, unsettled, and abruptly rips off the chain around his neck. The delicate golden filigree snaps as easily as straw, and clatters against the stone like faint chimes.

Theon knocks against the wooden door, and a gruff guard opens it shortly afterward. “The little one is here, m’lord.”

“Send him in.”

Like his uncle and mother, his father has grown old and world-weary. Balon Greyjoy’s dark hair has turned grey, tangled like a current of water down his back. The Lord Reaper is pouring over a massive maritime map that spills across two tables, haphazardly pushed together. Father stands as he approaches. Despite his age, his newfound frailty, there is still strength in the set of his shoulders, in his hands, especially in his eyes, which are as dark and unflinching as ever.

His father looks him up and down, and presumably satisfied with what he sees, simply says, “Boy.”

Theon sets his face in a grin, not too wide nor too sharp. “I’m two-and-twenty. I’d say that’s closer to the age of a man.”

“You forget yourself, _boy,_ ” he spits. “Tell me of your reaving.”

A familiar routine. Theon squares his shoulders and begins as his Father turns back to his maps. “The _Sea Bitch_ spent three moons sailing up the Free Cities. Took a spice runner, and a Tyroshi merchant ship. Best prize was from a Braavosi ship that blew off course and a Lyseni barge. It should be all sent up to Rodrik by dusk.

“Good. And then?”

“We made port in Pentos,” Theon wet his lips. “And then made a detour to King’s Landing.”

Balon’s head jerks up, eyes as black as a storm. “You are a fool to have gone there,” he says, nearly snarling.

“I had good reason. Privateers got a hold of Cleftjaw.”

“Does he live?” The Lord Reaper and Dagmer had spent their youth serving on the same ship, and that fondness seemed to endure decades later.

“Of course,” Theon answers. “If he had died, I would have mentioned it far earlier.”

“How did this happen?”

“We were caught rifling through logs on a Lannister ship…I managed to get away, but Dag didn’t. So, we trailed them to the Crownlands and removed him from their gentle care.”

“Logs? What type of logs?” This is the most engaged Theon has ever seen his father, black eyes intently gazing at his son.

“Well, I was getting to that,” he laughs and winces at how strained it sounds. Is he nervous? He’s rehearsed this nearly a thousand times. “The _Lionstar_ is setting sail from Lannisport with the largest amount of gold ever seen on Summer Sea for the upcoming royal wedding. Cleftjaw and I were looking for logs detailing it’s planned course, for I mean to take it.”

His father barks a laugh, the spell broken, and Theon’s heart leaps up into his throat. “You? Take it alone?”

“Not alone!” He’s starting to sound desperate, and Theon stops, and takes a breath. “Give me the command of ten ships and I will bring you this prize. I swear.”

Balon Greyjoy gives his son a long, unreadable look. “You have ambition, and in a way that is admirable, but you are foolhardy and lust for glory. What use have I for Lannister gold?”

“It’s capital,” Theon stumbles for a convincing argument. “We could use it. To invest. Build up a better Pyke, far away from the greenlanders and their laws. A land where we could be free!” He can see it in his mind: a haven for free men, liberated from the crown. An Ironborn nation, a flourishing place with built stone towns and trade. Every captain could live as luxuriously as a king, spreading throughout the seas to build holdfasts, bastions of the Old Way.

“We do not build, boy,” his voice cracks like a whip. “We do not sow. We reave. Lannister can eat his gold and shit it back out again for all I care. There will be no ships for you, the fleet has other plans.”

The air suddenly feels cold. “Other plans?”

“Plans you need not concern yourself with.”

“If you are to deny me,” Theon snaps, voice rising to a shout. “I would least like to know why!”

A hand cracks across his face, leaving the skin stinging. Theon blinks, and his father is glowering at him, leaning over the table. “Remove yourself, and do not bring this up with me again.”

He does as he is told. _Always the obedient son_ , Theon thinks. _Where has that gotten me?_ Once the doors have closed behind him, he leans up on against the wall and pulls out his silk sash from his boot. Embroidery like this can only be bought with the gold price, commissioned by a seamstress in Braavos, and Theon was smart enough to tuck it out of sight. He fastens it now around his waist, hoping that if his father glances out from the window he’ll be rightly angered.

Theon makes his way down the hill and back into the more populated area of the island. The town here is a labyrinth of tents and wood shanties leaning up against each other. Men and women gather in groups, drinking and laughing and gambling. Seared meat and spices hang in the air as the sun starts to descend from its zenith. Sunset is still a few hours away—summer days are long—but as evening approaches, the atmosphere comes alive, charged with frenetic energy.

When Asha makes port, she likes to spend her evenings in a particular alehouse that doubles as a brothel. Theon tends to avoid it, simply because the thought of fucking someone that his sister has is uniquely upsetting to comprehend. Still, the food is halfway decent and he can usually manage to flirt his way to a free drink.

Theon spots his sister immediately, mostly from the crowd amassed at her table. She’s got a red-haired maid pulled onto her lap, turning to whisper into Qarl’s ear. His shade of blonde hair is unusually bright for an Ironborn, and it looks even brighter when Asha’s words turn his face a vivid red. Tristifer Botley sits on her other side, looking a bit dismayed at the lack of attention. Vickon has his back leaned up against his eldest brother’s shoulder, knife flashing in a finger dance against Wex.

Harlon is across the table, talking to Tris, and Stark sits stiff and straight-backed at his side as a whore climbs into his lap, fingers tangling in his auburn curls. The poor wolf looks pitifully uncomfortable, and Theon makes his way to the table, standing over his shoulder.

The woman is a pretty thing, with large blue eyes and light brown hair braided with strings of pearls. He gives her a charming grin and smiles wider when her face lights up with interest. “This one is off limits, darling,” he rests his hand on the back of Robb’s neck, who jolts at the touch. “My apologies.”

“Oh, forgive me,” She laughs and slips out of his lap, playfully tugging on one of Stark’s curls. “Does he belong to you, m’lord?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“I don’t belong to you,” Stark grumbles, shrugging out from beneath his grasp. His shoulders drop some of the tension as the woman vanishes into the crowd.

Theon throws a leg over the bench and sits, snatching Harlon’s ale from the table. “Do I need to remind you what the definition of a hostage is? What happened to Dag?”

“He said he had business of yours to take care of and left me with Botley.”

“Well,” he starts. Harlon has managed to coax a smile a smile out of Tris, laughing at some private jape. “At least he hasn’t gotten you killed.”

“You should have left me on the ship,” Robb frowns.

“Not having fun?” Theon smirks. “That’s a shame. Unfortunately, I need you here.”

“For what?”

“To convince my sister. Now, hold on,” he takes a swig of Harlon’s ale and slides it over to Robb, before calling down the table, “Asha! Where’s my darling niece?”

His sister stops, a smile spreading over her face, leaning away from whispering in Qarl’s ear. “Little brother,” she crows. With a gentle hand, the red-haired whore slides off of her lap—Tris Botley quickly slides over on the bench to fill up the newly freed space—and Asha reaches down to tug her dirk from her tunic. “Your devotion to your family is remarkable. Now, let my babe give her uncle a kiss.”

The dirk flies through the air. Asha’s aim is always true, and Theon stays still, smiling as it whistles an inch away from his ear and lodges in the wall. The table breaks out into laughter, apart from Robb, who glances at Theon in confusion.

His sister stands, stepping onto the bench, onto the table, and then steps down on the other side to sit beside him. Asha shares his face—well, the both of them share Balon’s features: the same hair, same eyes, same skin—but between the two of them, Theon is the more handsome one. Her nose is too big, too sharp for her face; dark hair cropped close to her skull like a thrall. She’s prettiest when she smiles, though, or when she spins a blade through her fingers, unashamedly alive and bold. Qarl and Tris certainly see something in Asha, or they would not be so devoted to her.

“Theon,” she says. “I was wondering when you would wash back up here.”

“How long have you at port?”

“Nearly a moon’s turn. Our lord father sent summons for me.”

He bites at his cheek. He can address that another time. “Did Dag speak to you?”

“He did,” Asha replies. “But it was so vague he shouldn’t have bothered. For a man with four lips, he doesn’t use them all that much,” she waves a hand to Robb, who is not remotely trying to conceal his eavesdropping. “He left this one here. Where’d you pick up another man fool enough to serve on your crew?”

“I asked Dag to keep it brief, because I wanted you to hear it from me,” Theon pauses, lowering his voice to a low whisper. “I have a plan to seize part of the Lannister treasure fleet. He’s the key to tracking it down.”

“He doesn’t look like much. Like a weak Riverman.”

“A Northman, actually,” Robb says diplomatically. “And we’re not weak.”

The moment he speaks, Asha frowns. “Outside. Now. Him, too.”

She stands and tugs her dirk out from the wall, darting out the doors. Theon follows after her, jerking Robb up by his collar. It’s early sunset now, the sky painted in shades of spun gold and pale pinks. Asha stands in a quiet alley, and as they round the corner, she slams Robb up against the wall, her dirk pressed up against the soft underside of his neck.

“What are you doing?” Theon spits, half-whispering, half-yelling. “Stop!”

“You brought a greenlander _here?_ ” Asha hisses. “Are you mad? We’ve kept this place secret for an entire decade, and you throw it away?”

“I kept him away from the navigator, and I doubt he can read sea charts.”

“I should slit his throat right now,” she presses the blade a bit closer. Robb doesn’t panic, nor does he look scared. His face is stoic, bright blue eyes regarding the two of them calmly.

Theon steps forward, slowly. Twisted by anger, Asha looks startlingly like their father in the set of her brow. “He’s my hostage,” he pulls his pistol from his holster. “If you kill him, you’ll have to answer to me.”

Black eyes meet his, and then Asha is laughing. “When did my baby brother grow up to be a man?” She steps back, and Robb immediately moves away from her, lingering at his side. “Tell me the name of the greenlander who would drive you to kinslaying.”

There’s something almost like pride gleaming in her eyes as she lowers her blade. Theon sheathes his pistol and kicks at Robb’s leg. “Stark. Robb Stark,” he says. “I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but my father raised me to be honest.”

“The son of the hand,” Asha murmurs. She slips into a mock curtsey, sweeping low as she laughs. “A handsome ransom, I presume.”

“I’m not seeking gold, but the details on the _Lionstar’s_ course.”

“Did you speak to father of this?”

“I went to see him earlier,” Theon chews on his lip. “Would you lend your ships to my cause?”

“What did father say?”

“No.”

Asha shakes her head and sighs. “Then you already know my answer.”

“But—!”

“Don’t waste your breath,” his sister looks him over, and abruptly says, “Have you seen Mother, yet?”

“I was planning on it,” a lie. He was going to spend the rest of the night in his cabin and weigh anchor the moment Urzen and Stygg dragged Todric back from the alehouse. “This evening, perhaps.”

“Good, I needed to speak to Uncle Rodrik anyways, you can come with me,” Asha waves a hand towards Robb. “And you, go back inside and don’t speak to anyone you don’t know, lest you meet someone less fond of Theon than I.”

Stark vanishes back into the alehouse, hopefully to attach himself to Harlon for the rest of the night. Asha sets off and Theon follows reluctantly after her. Rodrik Harlaw, more commonly known as the Reader, lives in a modest establishment connected to a massive storehouse. He has a skill for being able to sell stolen cargo and is the primary source of gold in all of Pyke.

Theon likes to save the books for him, ship log’s, diaries, collections of Valyrian poetry, histories of far-flung empires lost to time. Every now and then a ship they take will have a well-read captain, and his uncle always seems pleased at the gift.

“I don’t understand why you have to be so dramatic,” Theon says as they walk. “He’s barely a man, would you really have killed one of my men right in front of me?”

“ _You’re_ barely a man. Have you already forgotten what happened the last time we trusted a greenlander?”

In his head, Davos Seaworth was a smuggler before he was a greenlander, but all the same it resulted in death and destruction. “What do you need to speak to the Reader for?”

The thrall on guard lets them walk into their uncle’s house with no protest. Mother is in the same room she’s been housed in for five years, the one on the ground level overlooking the harbor.

Asha pauses on the stairs, heading up to the study, and bites her lip. “I can’t say.”

“Can’t,” Theon starts, bitterly. “Or won’t?”

“It’s not that simple, brother, Father’s deigned to share his plans with specific people—,”

“But not to his son?”

“Theon,” his sister says, reaching out to him. He jerks his shoulder away, taking several steps back. “It’s not that simple.”

“It seems simple. I don’t understand why the lot of you refuse to share things with me.”

“We’re waiting for you to grow up,” Asha says, voice firm. “And you keep disappointing us.”

“Fuck you,” Theon spits. Before his sister can respond, he turns and storms down the hall, retracing a familiar path.

All the anger rushes out of him as he enters his mother’s chambers. She sits in a tall-backed wood chair facing the window, bundled up in quilts despite the heat. The waves crash against the distant shore, accompanied by the music of men shouting at the docks, laughing in their cups, women calling for their children. As the door shuts, she turns at the sound, and Theon takes in the sight of his mother.

Her skin is unnaturally pale, a sickly color from too little sunlight. The very tips of her hair are the rich brown color he remembers from his youth, but the rest of it has gone the color of snow. It’s bound in her signature dual braids, spilling into her lap—Aunt Gywnesse must braid it for her, Mother’s fingers are too frail, shaky, and Asha has always worn her hair short—but it’s messy, strands escaping haphazardly as if she had been sleeping restlessly.

“Theon,” she whispers. And then a smile stretches across her face, and for a moment, the stranger transforms into his mother.

Alannys Harlaw had been a fierce woman, once. Theon can remember her, skin tanned by the sun, dark hair tangled in the sea breeze. Garbed in seal skins, a well-used crossbow in her hands. She would clap her calloused hands together in joy when Theon landed a shot; Dagmer smiling above him. His mother and the man that’s not his father.

He remembers her wrestling with Asha, cuffing Rodrik and Maron on their ears when they roused her temper, and the strength of her arms when she would throw Theon up into the air, screaming in the sea breeze.

“Mother,” Theon answers, crossing the room to her. He dutifully presses a kiss against her cheek and grudgingly lets her grasp his face in her hands. 

“My baby, look at you,” her hands slide off his face to rest in her lap. “When did you make port? I had been watching for your ship, but I must have missed it.”

Her voice still sounds the same, albeit a tad fainter, undercut by age and years of grief. “Mid-afternoon, but I docked in the South harbor.”

“A shame,” she sighs. From her window, the _Great Kraken_ and _Black Wind_ sit proud in the water, set against a violet twilight. “It’s such a lovely sight to see your ships together. A father’s ship should always be surrounded by his children’s.”

Theon waits for her to say it, to sigh about Maron and Rodrik never making port, but it never comes. This must be one of her good days, he thinks, abruptly reaching out to squeeze at her hand. He should have realized it before, seen the clarity in her brown eyes, to treasure it.

“Can I ask for some advice?”

She laughs and it’s a clear as a bell. “You humor an old woman.”

“You’re not _old_. You’re the fairest woman anywhere on the Summer Sea. ”

“What is it, darling?” She smiles at him indulgently, almost a little sad.

Theon licks his lips. “I—I’m having issues with father.”

“Your father loves you,” she insists. He’s not sure she’s saying it for his sake or her own.

“But he refuses to include me in his plans, and instead lets Asha—,”

“Asha’s path is different from your own. You are our only son. Our last boy. It means more than you can ever know,” she squeezes at his hand, eyes glassy, but her fingers spasm weakly instead like a haphazard pulse. “Rodrik and Maron,” her voice cracks. “They’re _dead_. Your father is afraid to lose you too, I know it.” Her voice quiets into low murmurs, as the clarity in her eyes fades away.

_What do you know?_ Theon thinks, turning away from her. _When was the last time he could stand to look at you?_

It’s an open secret that Balon Greyjoy has not visited his mother in years. They say that it’s because he cannot bring himself to look at the woman he loved reduced to so little, a living ghost. Theon wonders if the same rings true with his son. When Father looks at him, does he only see the ghosts of Rodrik and Maron?

It must be the reason, Theon thinks. It has to be.

He doesn’t want to consider the alternative. 

“Theon,” Mother says, grasping at his hand. Her voice is strange now, dreamy and familiar. “Will you send your brothers up to see me? It’s been so long.”

He sighs softly. “Of course, Mother.” It’s time to go—not even Asha can bear to be around her when she gets like this. He turns to press a kiss against the crown of her head, hoping that the next time he returns his mother will have decided to inhabit this stranger’s body again.

Theon looks down at his mother, and for a moment, all he can see is his own face reflected in hers. Haunted and sad, hair thin and brittle white. Forgotten and overlooked. He jerks back in disgust, and the vision fades. His mother reaches out to him in confusion as he topples backwards, hands grasping at his clothes.

“Theon!” She starts, eyes clear and bright. “What’s wrong?” For a moment, it looks like she’s about to rise from her chair, to fight off whatever imaginary monster that plagues her son, but her strength falters and she sinks back against the wood with a pained sigh.

“I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” he coughs. “I should be going, please give Rodrik and Gwynesse my love.”

His mother makes a sound of protest, but Theon’s on his feet and out the door within a heartbeat, unease chasing after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Remember when I said updates might take a bit longer? I somehow wrote this in two days. My bad. It also was not supposed to be this long, haha. I hope everyone enjoys the weekend, and have some insights on this chapter:
> 
> 1\. The quote from this chapter is from Black Sails--which I highly recommend as a show. The OST is also amazing (the hurdy gurdy slaps) and the song for this chapter is "Nassau Shores" also from that soundtrack. 
> 
> 2\. Oh how I am overjoyed to finally add all the Greyjoys to the character list. They are perhaps my favorite house is asoiaf, apart from maybe the Martells. Their POV chapters in AFFC/ADWD are SO good. I hope that I got the feel for their characters right, I spent some time rereading Theon's POV chapters in ACoK while I wrote this. 
> 
> 3\. Does Balon love his son? IDK! Don't ask me. He's a shitty dad in the books but as Theon grew up with him in this AU, I do think that he does care for him, but is likely afraid of attachment as he already lost his two older sons. He is also disappointed with Theon's general attitude in life and waiting for him to "grow up". Aeron was a lot like Theon before his drowning incident, so I like to think that Theon was his favorite nephew for a time, as Aeron was probably ten when Theon was born. (I read somewhere that Victarion was only like 12 when Asha was born, too.) 
> 
> 4\. Victarion isn't in this because I think he's a clown. Sorry. 
> 
> 5\. Euron is also not here. For reasons.
> 
> 6\. I love Alannys. I think she is so interesting and I want to hear more of her in the future books. I once wrote a wip where she and Asha went to rescue Theon from the Dreadfort but I never...actually finished it. Anyways, I imagine she's a bit more healthy as she has her two youngest children with her. I do think she can still get lost in the past sometimes, and as she ages, she has more bad days than good. I also like to think her and Balon had a semi-happy marriage before Rod & Maron died, but less because I think Balon is compelling and more that I think she deserves nice things. 
> 
> 7\. I feel like I write Robb too snarky. I'm not sure if that's a problem but I do marinate on it quite a bit haha. 
> 
> Anyways! That's all for this week. Thank you for the comments & kudos, I love reading them. Next chapter will be a bit different as it will be an interlude of sorts with an entirely new pov character. I've been looking forward to writing it a lot. See you next week!


	6. interlude: little bird

Red and white poppies grow at her feet, The blood-red wait for sweet summer heat,—

Christina Rossetti, excerpt of “ _The Prince’s Progress_ ”, in _Poems and Prose_

The maid comes to fetch Sansa in the mid-afternoon.

Sunlight glimmers in the garden of the Red Keep, the steady heat of a King’s Landing summer causing the flowers to bloom in bright vivid colors. Pink roses and yellow carnations, pretty poppies the same deep red as Sansa’s auburn curls, brushed loose around her shoulders and shining copper in the sunlight. In the shade of an alder tree, Sansa has gathered her ladies at a round table, carried into the garden by two stewards.

A cream linen sheet has been thrown over the glossy oak of the table, which is laden with sweetcakes and fresh berries, rich red apples cut into the shape of roses, sliced pears and green grapes fresh from the vine. There’s a plate of lemon cakes dusted with powdered sugar like a Winterfell snow, and finely cut cheese softening in the sun.

Sansa takes a sip of her iced honey milk—the chill of her goblet pleasant against her fingers—as Jeyne breaks out into peals of bright laughter. She’s grown particularly lovely in the Crownlands, with a faint dusting of freckles appearing on the bridge of her nose. Jeyne has taken to wearing her hair in the southern styles, and this morning Sansa had helped her braid her straight brown hair into an elaborate plait that sits on the top of her head like a crown. Beth Cassel flushes red, which clashes with the orange of her gown, and takes a hurried sip from her melon juice, hiding behind her curtain of tight, blond ringlets.

“Jeyne,” Sansa intervenes, smoothing down the fabric of her gown. Today, she wears a frock of pale green silk, with embroidered lace sleeves. Queen Cersei had called it beautiful the last time she wore it, and the lightness of the fabric is essential for a day spent in the summer heat. “Leave poor Beth be.”

“I’m not trying to be cruel.” Jeyne wears deep blue gossamer today, which almost seems to float in the sea breeze. “Truly, Beth,” she says, apologetically. “I was just surprised. I’m sure Podrick will make a good match.”

“He’s sweet-,”

“And he squires for a Lannister, too,” Sansa adds. “Very prestigious.”

“Yes, and that,” Beth says. “Father says he’s like to be knighted. He’s from the Payne cadet branch, so he doesn’t hold land, but I’m Father’s heir, and that means Pod can-,”

“Pod?” Jeyne smiles, teasingly.

“Podrick, I mean, will come to live up North. With me, and Father.”

Sansa leans forward in her chair. “And are you happy with the match, Beth?”

Her younger companion smiles. “Yes. Podrick has always been kind to me, even before Father spoke to Lord Tyrion about the match. And he’s handsome too, I think.”

“He is decent with a sword,” Jeyne says, and Beth’s face flushes as red as wine. “Who would have thought that I would be the last of us to get betrothed.” She reaches out and takes Sansa’s hands over the table. “When you’re the queen and I’m your lady-in-waiting, you simply must find me a handsome gallant man, with blue eyes, no wait, maybe green, or—,”

_When she is queen,_ Sansa muses. It still does not quite feel real, the luxury of the royal court, the breathtaking beauty of the Red Keep poised over the glimmering bay, the Queen’s grace, and Joffrey’s bright green eyes. Her hand rises to finger at her heavy silver necklace, with an emerald the size of robin’s egg nestled against the hollow of her throat.

It had been a gift from Joffrey the last time she saw him, to celebrate the year anniversary of their betrothal. They had been in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, on the day before the King and his court embarked on a royal tour. Joffrey dressed in ermine and sable, black embroidered with antlers in golden thread, and Sansa in a gown of demure grey chosen by her mother and a hairnet of milky quartz that looked like fresh fallen snow upon her hair.

“This stone belonged to my grandmother, the Lady Joanna,” her prince had said. He had one foot up on the dais, and so he seemed especially tall, looking down at her. The sunlight from the wide, tall windows set his hair on fire, glittering like spun gold.

Joffrey had brushed her hair from her neck and fastened the silver clasp like a collar, his eyes gleaming like polished emeralds. “It is only fitting that it should now pass to you as my betrothed, my lady.”

Sansa had smiled and curtsied low with gratitude pouring from her lips. Joffrey had pressed a kiss against the back of her hand before being swept off by a steward. As he left, she had locked eyes with the Queen, who stood stiff and straight-backed before the Iron Throne, which towered behind her like a dark and terrible beast. Queen Cersei’s eyes glanced down to the emerald at her throat and smiled, so slow it looked like closer to a snarl, before Lord Baelish caught her attention.

The necklace feels heavy now, the skin beneath the silver clammy from the heat. Sansa takes another sip of her iced milk and smiles as Beth and Jeyne laugh in the sun.

“Pardon me, my lady,” a voice interrupts. Sansa glances up and sees a maid standing just outside of the shade of the alder tree, wearing the colors of her house. “Your father has summoned you to the Tower of the Hand. He says it is quite urgent.”

“Of course,” Sansa stands and smooths out the wrinkles in her gown. “Jeyne, Beth, I’ll find you later for our needlework session.”

The maid leads her out from the garden, through a red brick courtyard, and pauses underneath a crenellated archway. “My apologies, Lady Sansa. I need to fetch Lord Rickon from his lessons.”

“Don’t fret,” Sansa smiles kindly. “I know the way to my father’s solar.”

She curtsies in gratitude and flits like a bird away from sight. Sansa lingers for a moment, before continuing on her way. The Red Keep has been quiet ever since the King left on his royal progress. Joffrey had told her that it was less for the King, and more as a way to introduce Joffrey to his future subjects, endear the smallfolk to their young prince. They’ve been gone for nearly two months, and due to return in another two, when she will finally be married. Most of the servants had left to attend to the royal retinue, and Sansa moves through the keep like a ghost, passing through old stone halls.

She climbs up the steep, winding staircase to the top of the Hand’s tower to her father’s solar. Vayon Poole meets her in the reception room and bows low upon her arrival. Jeyne shares his nose and eyes, which crinkle as he smiles at her. “Lady Sansa, your lord father has instructed me to wait until the rest of your siblings arrive.”

Sansa nods, and moves to stand by a narrow window. Lord Poole disappears back into her Father’s solar. The Tower of the Hand has one of the most beautiful views in the Red Keep, a bird’s view of the sprawling city, people moving through the streets like ants. The window in Sansa’s chambers faces the Great Sept of Baelor, it’s seven pronged towers gleaming in the air like candles, glimmering like crystals and casting strange rainbow patterns all over the plazas.

There’s a rapid thump, and the door to the tower slams open with a bang. Arya steps through, panting and out of breath. Her sister is garbed in boiled leather and roughspun brown linen trousers, boots covered with mud and dust. Her hair is pulled back into a messy braid, damp with sweat. It’s starting to come apart, several strands falling loose into her face.

“I came as fast as I could,” Arya says, blowing her hair out of her eyes with a huff. She mercifully has left her sword behind at her lessons, her leather scabbard empty of it’s Needle.

As Arya moves to stand beside her, Sansa snaps her skirts away from her filthy boots. “We still have to wait for our brothers. Honestly Arya, couldn’t you have cleaned up a little? You look filthy, you know what Mother will—!” 

“I know what Mother would think,” Arya says snidely. “I don’t need to hear it from you as well.”

Sansa sniffs, and a tense silence settles between them. Arya moves back away to stand at a distance, arms crossed over her chest. She sighs, hands fiddling with the silk of her bodice.

“How were your lessons? Did you enjoy yourself?”

Arya perks up, a small smile settling on her lips. “I always do. Syrio is just brilliant. He had me practicing my forms while balancing on a beam today.”

“On a beam? Like some mummer?”

“Yes! I fell over a dozen times, but I think I’m improving. I was halfway through my sequence when the messenger came.”

“Oh, Arya. That’s quite impressive,” Sansa says earnestly.

“How was your…picnic? With Jeyne and Beth?”

“Splendid. You would have liked the sweetcakes. Did you know Beth is betrothed?”

Arya’s nose scrunches up. “To who?”

“Podrick Payne, the dwarf’s squire.”

“I’ve seen him,” Arya says, contemplatively. “He’s good with a sword, but he won’t ever spar with me.”

“Do you think he would be kind to Beth?”

“Oh yes,” Arya starts. “He’s kind, and never looks down at me for being a girl. He’s quiet most of the time, but sometimes he tells a jape or two that’ll make everyone in the yard laugh.”

“Truly?”

“I swear it! It was the oddest sight I’d ever seen!”

Sansa laughs, and Arya joins in, her voice twinkling merrily against the stone. The door to the tower opens once more, and Bran tumbles in, grinning up at his sisters. His auburn curls are plastered against his forehead and he carries a leather helmet underneath an arm. “I hope I’m not late, I was helping Lord Renly ride quintain”

“Quintain?” Sansa starts. “Is there a tourney coming up?”

Both Arya and Bran turn to her with wide eyes. “Sansa!” They say in unison, incredulous.

“Lord Renly says that the king will throw a tourney for your wedding,” Bran says. “The largest one the realm will ever see!”

“Even I knew that!” Arya adds.

Bran fidgets, glancing over to the door to Father’s solar. “Are we waiting for Rickon?”

“The maid is fetching him from his lessons.”

“Do you know why Father summoned us? I asked Syrio to wait for me to return.”

“I’m worried,” Bran starts. Something oddly pensive and wise settles in his blue eyes, older than his eleven years. “That it might be about Robb.”

Robb. Sansa thinks of him with snow in his hair, laughing with Grey Wind in his arms. She remembers him in grey and white furs, in the burnished gold of his guard uniform, heat plastering his hair against his forehead. The last time she had seen him was at the Great Sept, wrangled in by their mother, bowed before the statue of the Warrior, murmuring to himself among the incense and light.

He was supposed to come to dinner that night. They had waited for an hour, watching gravy cool and harden, fruit and meat gone uneaten as drinks warmed in their glasses. The conversation had stalled and gone silent, until Mother’s worry and Father’s stoic concern boiled over and meal was a somber disaster, carried back to the kitchens.

“Maybe they’ve found him,” Arya says, voice filled with a strained cheer. “And Jon, too. Both of our brothers returned to—.”

“Jon is dead, Arya. It’s been half a year. You have to come to terms with it.”

“Sansa,” Bran starts, horrified. “That’s—,”

Arya’s face twists into a snarl. “Don’t say that! He could be alive! We can’t just give up and forget about him. He wouldn’t give up on any of us, not even you, Sansa!”

“What is that supposed to—?”

The door opens once more and the maid enters, holding Rickon by the hand. At the sight of all his siblings, Rickon wrenches his hand free from hers and runs to bury his face in Sansa’s skirts. He grins up at her, and she laughs at the gaps in his teeth. “Sansa!” He says with glee, and she bends to press a kiss to the crown of his head.

“Where’s my hug?” Arya crows, their conflict forgotten. Rickon runs to her, laughing as Arya uses all of her strength to swing him up into the air, spinning in place.

Little Rickon lands, breathless, and scurries over to Bran, who ruffles his hair affectionately. The pair of them see each other most often, sometimes sharing lessons with the maester, or sessions in the training yard. “Can we go climbing tonight after supper?”

“Of course, we can, but don’t,” Bran pauses, and glances between his sisters. “Don’t tell mother.”

Having likely heard the commotion, Vayon Poole opens the door and steps out. “Lord and Lady Stark will see you now.”

Sansa enters the solar, Arya following close behind, and Bran guiding Rickon by the shoulder. Father sits at his desk, fingers folded in front of his eyes, while Mother stands looking out a window, a piece of parchment clenched tightly in her fingers.

They line up according to age, Sansa at the far left and Rickon on the right. She leaves space for Robb out of instinct, almost expecting him to spontaneously arrive and take up his rightful spot at her side.

The mood of the solar is subdued, and a building sense of dread settles in Sansa’s chest and throat. Her necklace feels like an anchor, about to drag her through the floor and fall all the way down to the ground.

“Mother,” Bran breaks the silence first. “Father. What’s going on?”

Their mother turns from the window. Catelyn Stark has always been beautiful, but King’s Landing has made her radiant. Her long red hair is always bound up in the most intricate of styles, dressed in beautiful frocks of vivid colors, summer fashions of fine silks and satins. There’s no need for thick wools and furs this far south, and their mother has become a woman both strange and familiar in her foreign beauty.

Today she wears a gossamer gown of milky cream, Stark white, slashed with Tully blue. Her hair is worn in the Northern style, tumbling around her shoulders. Her smile is tremulous, and her eyes are rimmed with red, swollen.

“Is it Robb?” Arya says. “Is he—?”

Father rises from his seat, grey cloak fluttering around him. “Robb is alive.”

And suddenly, Sansa’s cheeks are wet with tears, smiling with joy and relief. Her brother is alive, he’s coming home. “Where is he? When will he be back?” 

Her Father’s face falls, and he shares a glance with Mother; her eyes are wet and shining, and Sansa’s joy sinks in her throat. “I’m afraid it’s not so simple,” he sinks back into his chair with a sharp exhale. Suddenly he looks old, resigned, and weary as he folds his fingers in front of his face. “But I will see your brother brought back to us if it’s the last thing I do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday! Welcome to the first interlude! Here are your weekly insights!
> 
> 1\. The song for this chapter is the Orlais Theme from Dragon Age Inquisition. It felt appropriately fancy and regal for Sansa in King's Landing! 
> 
> 2\. Writing this was a lot of fun entirely for the lush descriptions of court. I love to write descriptions of fancy clothes and food, and the first half of this chapter is my favorite. Sansa still hasn't lost that idealized version of the court, so I wanted everything to feel dreamy and vivid. 
> 
> 3\. Sansa is still betrothed to Joff, although he has not quite shown his true colors to anyone yet. The Direwolves do exist but they have all been left in Winterfell, so there was no incident at the Trident. All the Starks are a bit older here, so that's manifested in Arya and Sansa having some conflict but deciding to be the bigger person and be civil, or at least try with each other. Their relationship is probably a lot better, especially as Catelyn is there to mediate. 
> 
> 4\. Arya is still having sword lessons with Syrio, Bran is squiring for Renly, and Rickon is probably enjoying his childhood. Catelyn is taking quite well to the social duties of being the wife of the Hand, and has thrown herself into court. Baelish is probably making himself a nuisance. Ned is being...well, Ned. 
> 
> 5\. This chapter was a bit shorter as it's an interlude. There will be three more of these in this fic, I believe, unless I suddenly start adding more. I just thought it would be fun to jump to see the Starks in the wake of Robb's disappearance. 
> 
> ANYWAYS, thanks once again for the comments + kudos. I'll see you next week with Robb once more!


	7. vi. the high seas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has some descriptions of graphic violence beginning from the line "And then the other ship fires..." and continues basically until the end of the chapter.

-around me the world was sinking deeper and deeper into a storm of blood and madness.

Umberto Eco, _The Name of the Rose_

“Fuck me, it’s hot.”

Robb decides to simply groan in response, one arm flung over his eyes. Harlon is laid out next to him on the deck, sharing the shade of the main course with Vickon.

The sun is oppressively today—it has been for two weeks. An unbearable hot streak of burning blue skies and calm seas. What Robb would give for a cloud, some rain, a proper storm. He abruptly misses a true Northern winter, Winterfell blanketed with snow, freezing winds, the rustle of pines, and grey, grey skies. Most of the crew of the _Sea Bitch_ are taking refuge in the shade of the sails, apart from Wex, who naps in direct sunlight like a deranged cat, and Theon, who resolutely stands at the helm, dripping in sweat.

A sour mood lingers on the deck. The heat is driving everyone mad, testy, easily irritable. But it’s not just the weather—it’s Theon. The captain has been cagey since they set sail from Pyke, constantly pacing around, and refusing to tell anyone on the crew where they’re sailing to. Dagmer doesn’t even know, which has made the old man broody and quick to anger.

Greyjoy takes his meals alone, vanishing into his cabin from evening until dawn. He looks exhausted, Robb thinks. His eyes are even blacker when surrounded by dark circles. They’ve exchanged only a handful of words since they left Pyke. That _should_ be a good thing, to be free of Theon’s irritating chatter, but absurdly it just feels disquieting, eating away at Robb in a way that lacks sense.

“Do you think that this is what fish feel like?” Vickon says, spreadeagled next to him.

“What the fuck are you on about,” Harlon sighs, exasperated in the way only an older brother can be. Robb laughs, abrupt and strangled, and winces at the way it echoes over the silent deck.

The younger Botley leans up on his elbow. “I mean. This must be what it feels like to be cooked alive.”

“At least fish are already dead when it happens,” Robb says.

Aborted by the heat, the three of them slip back into silence. The sun presses down on them like a physical weight; each breath he draws is heavy and humid, sinking low into his lungs. Robb opens his eyes and blinks up at the sail, billowing in the breeze like a stain against the sky. Even the air feels hot, providing no reprieve from the sun.

“I need to take a piss,” Harlon stands, squinting against the sun.

“We literally do not care,” his brother replies. Robb lifts his head up just enough to grin at Vickon before collapsing back down against the deck.

“Fuck off. You too, Snow.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Then wipe that smirk off your face,” a light kick against his side. Robb counts the sound of his steps against the deck, listening to the waves, and waits for him to return to their shared suffering.

Yet, the footsteps don’t return. After an unusually long stretch of time, Robb glances his way. Harlon leans up against the railing, arms gripping at the gunwale, squinting out towards the horizon.

“What is it?”

“There’s a ship,” Harlon says, and then, voice rising into a shout. “A ship! Sails!”

The spell breaks, that sleepy heat vanishing with a crack, as the crew jump up to their feet, alert. Each man darts towards the port side, clustered up along the side of the ship. 

Climbing to his feet, Robb looks west, blinking at the way the sun reflects off the water. Trailing behind them is a ship with white sails and two blurry splotches of color as their flags. He leans over the railing, shoulders pressed against Harlon’s.

“They’re gaining fast,” the other says.

“How can you tell?”

“Harlon!” From the upper deck, Theon slings a spyglass down to Botley, who deftly plucks it from the air. “What standard?” He’s thrown his entire weight against the helm, spinning the spoked wheel to bring them to port.

A beat. He lowers the spyglass with a furrowed brow. “I don’t recognize it.”

“Let me,” Robb says, taking it out of Harlon’s hands. The ship flies two flags. A massive banner the color of fresh cream, emblazoned with a fox prancing on a bed of blue flowers. Flying below it is a smaller banner, bearing a stag within a burning heart. The new sigil for House Baratheon of Dragonstone, unveiled at court two months before Robb unceremoniously departed King’s Landing. 

“Florent! But they fly Stannis Baratheon’s sigil as well.”

Theon curses. “Privateers. What’s her speed?”

That, he can’t say. Harlon snatches back the spyglass and calls, “She’s gaining on us steadily, sir.” Robb blinks at the formality, glancing over to Harlon, who stares resolutely at the ship in the distance.

“Fuck! Raise the t’gallant!”

“Raise the t’gallant!” Dagmer echoes. Stygg and Urzen drag Todric to his feet and pull at the rigging, heaving at the thick ropes. The topgallant sail unfurls against the sky. Beneath their feet, the ship stutters before picking up speed. For a moment, everyone seems to hold their breath, watching Harlon.

“She’s still gaining! Be on us within the hour!”

“Prepare for battle!” Theon yells. The men roar alongside him, while Robb stands half-dumb, glancing around him.

“A fight,” Dagmer says. He’s grinning, all cracked teeth and scars, looming over Robb suddenly like a dark shadow. “Should be good for morale. Make sure to only gut the Reachers, boy,” he claps a heavy hand on his shoulder, fingers digging roughly into the fabric of his shirt. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

“Leave him be, Cleftjaw,” Harlon tugs Robb out of Dagmer’s grip. “He’s on artillery with me and I’d rather my partner not be spooked by your hideous personality.”

“Me? Scare the greenlander?” His face splits into a macabre grin, eyes bulging, and for a moment the hot breeze turns cold, gooseflesh peppering Robb’s forearms. “I would never.”

He laughs, and Harlon rolls his eyes. “With me, Snow.” Robb eagerly follows Botley down into the artillery hold, feeling the weight of Dagmer’s eyes on him the entire time.

The room is lined with a dozen cannons, half on the port and the other on the starboard side, secured with ropes and netting. Vickon and Wex dart around the room like birds, loading each gun with packets of powder and heavy iron shots.

Harlon pulls them to the third cannon on the port side, dropping to his knees and starting to wrap the stiff cord of a slow-burning fuse around a stick of wood. “You know how to work a cannon?”

“No,” Robb says, kneeling at his side. “Cadwyl has been meaning to teach me.”

“Shit, just pass the shots to me when we reload. I’ll take care of the rest, yeah?”

The rest of the men make their way down to the hold. Maron and Vickon take the far position at the opposite end from the entrance, Cadwyl and Rymolf on their left. Next to Robb, Gevin and Urzen are at the ready, with Stygg and Todric at the first gun. Dagmer stands on the stairs, half in the hold, with his head peering out over the deck. Silent and still, Wex stands in the center, packets of fine, dark powder strapped to his belt and hanging around his neck.

“You know what you’re doing?” Robb whispers, an unbidden apprehension settling on his shoulders.

Harlon strikes flint and lights the match in his lap. The fuse burns red hot and slow, inching down the rope. “I know enough.” A grin. “Watch closely and maybe you’ll learn something.”

The hold goes silent, and Robb listens to the sound of waves, sails flapping in the wind, their breathing. Botley settles beside him, focused and steady, lit fuse in his hands. “Fifty yards,” Theon says above deck, voice muted and strange. “In range.”

“What is dead may never die,” Maron says quietly. In the stillness of the hold, it feels as loud as a shout.

“But rises again, harder and stronger,” the crew responds, somber and strong.

_May the Old Gods watch over me,_ Robb thinks. _Father guide me. Warrior, defend us._

“All cannons! Open fire!” Dagmer roars like a beast, but the cannons scream louder, ringing in Robb’s ears, filling the hold with pale smoke. 

“Reload!”

Wex shoves a packet of powder into Harlon’s hands, as Robb scrambles to hoist up a fresh shot. The iron is heavy, nearly tipping him forward from the unexpected weight. Choking on the smell of smoke and gunpowder, he manages to pass it to Harlon, who rips it from his grasp and sends it clanging down into the maw of the cannon.

“It’s too bloody hot for this!” Harlon screams, his voice almost going hoarse. “ _Fuck_ you!” He lights the fuse and the cannon crashes louder than thunder, rocketing back into them. He can hear the sound of the shot hitting the side of the Florent ship, the splintering of wood and the screaming of men.

“She’s coming about!”

“Good!” He can hear Todric laughing, such a rich, uproarious sound. “I’m itching for a proper fight!”

And then the other ship fires, a dozen shots blasting through the hull. Planks explode into sharp splinters the size of daggers, slicing at Robb’s skin. Wood shavings hang in the air like snow, caught in his hair. There’s blood on his face, dripping from cuts in his forearm, staining the white of his shirt.

A shot flies through the wood and rips through Todric like he was made of paper, tearing through his chest and bone. Blood leaks out of him like wine, spilling against the deck, rich and red. A gaping hole of bloody viscera and shattered ribs. Urzen screams and the sound is incomprehensible; Robb kneels there against the floor in quiet horror, as the man stumbles back against the wall, mouth gaping, and slumps to the floor.

“Boarders!” Someone is yelling. “To the deck! To the deck!”

“Get up,” a hand seizes him by his shoulder, hauling him up. Harlon’s brown eyes blink out at him, oddly striking against the blood on his brow, smeared over his face like paint. “Robb, we need to move.”

The hold is empty, Robb realizes abruptly. Just the pair of them and Todric’s cooling corpse, oozing fluid onto the planks. How can a man be full of so much _blood?_ Ivory bone and meat, pink lungs burst open like ripped gossamer. Half of his ribs are shattered, strewn about him like coins. The air reeks of blood and shit and gunpowder. He retches. “Don’t look at him,” Harlon says, shaking him. “Look at me. They need us on deck—you have a sword?”

Mutely, Robb shakes his head, and Harlon presses his own blade into his numb fingers. “Take mine,” he says. “Are you alright?”

Robb nods, and Harlon clenches his jaw. “Let’s hope greenlanders know how to fight,” he says, forcing a smile. The joke falls flat and dead between them like Todric’s cooling corpse.

“Watch my back and I’ll watch yours,” Robb offers weakly.

Harlon nods, and they take the stairs two at a time, emerging onto the chaos of the deck. The Florent ship has sent the first wave of men over on makeshift bridges, others swinging over on the rigging, or climbing up over the gunwale. A few of them wear gleaming plate, iron and silver, clanking loudly in their approach.

Rymolf kicks one of the armored knights off the ship and into the water with a massive splash. Their armor was a beautifully polished thing, embellished with flowers and foxes, silver and gold. _It’ll rust at the bottom of the sea,_ Robb thinks, mouth dry. _Having dragged the man down with it._

More nimble men, not bogged down by the weight of armor, have already boarded, engaging with the rest of the crew. Cadwyl’s spear spins elegantly in the air, running through any man foolish enough to challenge him. Gevin Harlaw has his spectacles tucked into his breast pocket and a bloody handaxe in his hand. An audible crack of bone echoes over the deck as Maron forces an axe through the soft skin of someone’s forehead.

Stygg is bathed in blood and chunks of stringy flesh—Robb wonders if it belongs to Todric. They had been standing next to each other the cannonball burst through the hull and lodged into his chest. The entirety of his face is the color of rust, apart from where tears have washed the color away.

At his side, Harlon ducks to pluck a sword out of the grasp of a dead Reachman, all brown eyes and curls. Robb searches for the younger Botley and spots him towards the prow.

A stake of wood sticks out of his shoulder, blood blooming on his shirt like a rose. The injured arm is slung over Wex’s shoulder, and the other clutches a flintlock pistol, which fires towards the men climbing from the enemy ship. Despite his injury, there’s a vicious grin on Vickon’s face, blue eyes flashing in the sun. Wex’s face is twisted into a feral snarl, blood from his nose dripping into his mouth and staining his teeth like a beast.

They’re so young, Robb thinks. He tries to imagine Rickon and Bran all grown up, stretched into a malformed version of Uncle Edmure, with blood on their faces and staining their hands. It’s an ugly sight, and uglier still when the image fades and there stands Wex and Vickon, barely out of their childhood, not yet men and thrust into battle. A Florent soldier runs towards them, stumbling over the gunwale, a blade in his hands. Wex throws Vickon to the deck and blocks the sword strike with his dagger.

Robb moves towards them out of instinct, that innate protective nature of an older brother, but stops in his tracks as Wex guts the enemy and pulls out his entrails with a silent snarl, coating his arm up to the elbow in blood. Vickon is either laughing or howling in pain, clutching at his wounded shoulder—over the din of battle, it’s impossible to tell over the screams of men and steel.

A shout. An unfamiliar voice. From the corner of his eye, Robb spots a man garbed in white and blue charging towards him. The fox of House Florent stalks over his tunic, flecked with blood. He has remarkably large ears, Robb thinks, reeling backwards to dodge the swing of his blade. Harlon’s sword blocks the following blow, quivering from the force and vibrating all the way down into Robb’s bones.

It has been a long time since Robb wielded a sword. Rodrik Cassel had taught him in Winterfell’s courtyard. Him, Jon, and a pair of wooden training blades in the summer snows. Sansa and Jeyne and Beth watching from the balcony, giggling amongst their selves. Arya chasing Bran up the old tower, screaming with laughter. It feels like a lifetime away now: the sound of Jon’s laughter, Father’s pride and Mother’s joy.

Still, Cassel’s lessons left their mark. _Block!_ He can hear his gruff, wind-worn voice barking in the training yard. _Parry!_ Robb instinctively shifts his weight, brings the sword spinning around to the side and slashing at the other man. The Florent shifts on his heels and brings his sword up into a high swing, glinting against the sunlight.

Too high, Robb thinks. Poor form. His torso is far too exposed. The sword slides in easily, cutting through fabric and flesh. Blood blooms on white linen, and the Florent drops his sword mid-swing, gaping.

“You need to make sure to protect your weak points,” Robb says automatically, thinking of what Rodrik would say. As if he was talking to Jon. “If you leave yourself exposed like that, someone is going to—.”

He stops and looks down to the sword embedded in the man’s stomach. The Florent has blue eyes, looking at him in shock and horror and pain. “I’m so sorry,” Robb says, catching the weight of the man as he starts to topple forwards, delirious. He lowers the man down to the deck, kneeling at his side, fingers still clutched around the handle. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Murderer,” the man spits. “Fuck you, pirate.”

And then he dies. Sudden and abrupt. Robb stumbles back, letting the sword slip from his fingers, still buried in the soft flesh of the man’s chest. His heart pounds in his ears, breath short. Robb’s hands are shaking,

He’s not sure how long he kneels there, leaning over a blank corpse. Maybe years pass, as Robb stares transfixed at the slack, dead expression on Florent’s face, all the blood.

Two hands wrap around his neck, jerking Robb up like a marionette with tangled strings. A boarder bearing no sigil snarls in his face, ugly and terrible. He brings his hands up to pull at the other’s arms, batting at his shoulders. Robb can see the wind in the sails but cannot breathe it in. His lungs burn hotter than the sun, the heat, his eyes blur and the world spins.

A hole appears in his neck, oddly small for how much blood spurts out. It coats Robb’s hands and face in a hot, humid stream of red, spraying into his mouth and eyes. The grip on his neck loosens, and Robb chokes down gulps of air as the dead man collapses against him. He glances behind him and sees the silver glint of Theon’s pistol halfway across the deck, smoking slightly from the barrel.

_You’re welcome,_ the tilt of his mouth seems to say, dark eyes dancing. He stalks forward into the thick of battle like a predator, coat billowing out behind him like a black shroud. Robb pushes the body away, wincing as it thuds against the deck, and stumbles after him, lightheaded.

Theon cuts through men like paper, who collapse against the planking in pools of blood, gasping and gaping. Robb kneels and plucks a blade from the slack hand of a dying man, whispering an apology.

When he stands, he sees it—the man with a pistol aimed at Theon’s back.

The world slows before his eyes—from the adrenaline, he thinks. Uncle Benjen had told them about it once, him and Jon, seated at his feet as he regaled them tales of battle. How the rush of war can stretch out the passing of time, like the way a river slowly freezes over.

Theon Greyjoy is the worst thing to have ever happened to Robb in his admittedly short life. He’s an insufferable, arrogant prick who had the gall to kidnap the heir to Winterfell straight out from King’s Landing and get away with it, too. He’s a murderer. A reaver. A filthy pirate that Robb would have watched die on the gallows with the comforting knowledge that he was dispensing justice.

And he could, still. The man readies his pistol, finger inching towards the trigger. One shot, and Theon would be dead, bleeding out with all the other men he’s cut down. It would be over. Robb could lay down his arms and be back with his family within a moon’s turn. Rejoice at the fact that there was one less pirate in the world.

But that was before.

Stubborn and vain, but charming and witty. Robb thinks of Theon’s laugh, the timbre of his voice when he sings, fingers dancing as he spins his pistol and the way he methodically cleans it each evening, brow furrowed in concentration. He remembers Theon napping against the foremast, Wex’s head pillowed in his lap, hat pulled down over his eyes. The sound of Harlon’s laughter at a witty jape, teaching Vickon how to shoot, Dagmer’s proud ugly smile.

Greyjoy is grinning, whites of his teeth flashing in the sun. Blood is splattered all over his face like violent stars. His longsword is stained red, and the pistol in his other hand flashes in the light, pristine. If he’s laughing, Robb can’t hear it, the world silent and still like a painting.

He really does have a handsome smile. 

Robb moves and the world does too, stuttering at first like one of those strange little toys Margaery Tyrell bought from Essos—miniature soldiers with miniscule gears that would walk if you wound them up. All the sound whooshes back into focus, the clash of steel, the shouts of the dead and dying.

He crashes into Theon roughly, right as the sound of a pistol firing echoes in his ears. Surprised, he grabs Robb by his shoulders, sword slipping out of his grasp. “Stark?” He says, the din of battle drowning out his words. “Be careful, I nearly gutted you. What are you doing?”

“It hurts,” Robb says.

And it does hurt. It burns and burns and burns and burns, warm and wet and cold all at the same time. When he breathes, he can feel it—the foreign thing burrowed deep into his flesh, twitching and shifting as he moves, like a maggot eating him from the inside.

Theon’s grin falls—and oh, isn’t that a shame! Worry and panic settle on his face, screwing his brow, twisting his mouth. Through the daze of pain, Robb watches his eyes flicker to the side, widening, before Theon jerks them to the left. Unsteady on his feet, he lurches forward, leaning up against his chest, face buried in the crook of Theon’s neck. Arms shift, dropping from his shoulders to support Robb by his waist.

The silver glint of a sword swings into the space they formerly occupied. Everything is slowing down again, turning muted and quiet—not like before; this is something more sleepy, dreamlike, colors blurring together. Theon’s voice sounds strange, frantic and strained into a higher pitch than usual. “Dagmer! I need help!”

Steel clashes together with a reverberating clang, blood splatters against Robb’s face like sea spray. Cleftjaw’s voice booms loudly in his ear, but he can’t make out the words. His legs give out and he collapses fully against Theon, who stumbles under the weight.

“Shit! Robb—can you hear me? I need you to say—,”

Theon smells like the sea. Gunpowder and sweat and blood. Something woody underneath. Pleasant. Sweet. _Is that seriously what you’re thinking about right now? You’ve been shot._ The voice in his head sounds a lot like Jon, or at least what he thinks Jon sounded like. When was the last time he heard his brother’s voice? What was the last thing they said to each other?

It would be nice to see him again, Robb thinks, in whichever life comes after this one. He tries to conjure up the image of Jon’s face, but the details are all wrong, mishappen by time and memory. He sighs in frustration, and then everything goes dark and quiet, like falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Happy Thursday! Putting this one up a bit early as I have an insanely busy weekend regarding school and wouldn't have time to post until Monday at the earliest! I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend, and here are, as always: the meta insights. 
> 
> 1\. This chapters song is The High Seas from the Assassin's Creed Black Flag OST. This is actually the last (?) chapter that is instrumental, the rest will be songs with lyrics haha. I've been thinking about posting my spotify playlist for this fic but I also don't want to spoil anything, if that makes sense. 
> 
> 2\. I hope this chapter was suitably dramatic! It also marks the turning point in the slow burn. I've been endlessly frustrated at myself for writing a slowburn because it's chapter 7 and no one has kissed yet. This will change, I assure you all I am writing a romance. 
> 
> 3\. Apologies for the combat, I hope it was fun to read because I hate to write it. I only enjoy writing injuries and not the actual, move here, block strike, attack, parry, etc. 
> 
> 4\. Robb suffers from Catelyn syndrome where he thinks he’s far older than he actually is. Oh, Wex and Vickon are kids! Robb you are only two to three years older than them, what do you mean. 
> 
> 5\. I've mentioned Stannis Baratheon before and I guess I'll dive a bit into his life in this AU as I've thought about it a lot for a character that I don't think will ever show up in this fic? Canonically, he serves as the Master of Ships in ASOIAF, which I have adapted into being a very determined pirate hunter. I imagine he spends most of his time on Dragonstone and chasing down pirates on the Summer Sea. He's incredibly exceptional at it, and he was the one that destroyed the last Pyke. Davos is still his best friend? Most loyal advisor, etc, and helps Stannis with pirate behavior and hideouts. I imagine he was pardoned and has become a privateer, which has sometimes been historically described as a pirate with a royal license. 
> 
> House Florent is Selyse’s house. They also help Stannis hunt pirates, and do so as part of his fleet. I had them be the ones we encountered, for if Theon and the crew had to fight against Stannis—they would absolutely all die. 
> 
> I'm not sure if I have much else to say! As always, I'll see you all next week! Thank you for the comments and kudos, I am glad people are enjoying reading this as much as I enjoy writing it!


	8. vii. what the water gave me

You are a fever I am trying to live with.

Richard Silken, except of _Straw House, Straw Dog_

Everything is warm. Robb burrows deeper into the soft embrace surrounding him, breathing in the smell of rain and fresh earth. A dull ache burns low in his chest, his limbs strung out and sleepy. Reluctantly, he opens his eyes to darkness, blinking as dirt and dust fall against his face. Robb lurches up as his eyes start to burn, welling up with irritated tears, and breaks though a layer of loose soil. When his vision clears, Robb wipes away muddy tears and finds himself in the godswood, sitting in a shallow grave nestled between the roots of a wierwood tree.

The disturbed earth is rich and dark, nearly black, moist against Robb’s hands and beneath his nails. It clings against his skin, caught in the fabric of his clothes, sloughing off him like melting ice as Robb climbs to his feet. Pine needles blanket the ground, with the occasional bloody red leaf shed from the heart tree, and vibrant moss clinging to every bark and branch. Cedars and oaks, ash and elm, dark chestnuts and hawthorn trees tower over him, blocking out most of the light. The air is fresh, clean and clear from rain; Robb breathes in the smell of home, Winterfell in its familiar glory.

Frowning down at him, the carved face of the weirwood weeps blood. Robb wonders if they are tears of joy, to have a Stark in Winterfell once more. He rises to his feet, unsteady, and meets the gaze of his gods. Wind echoes in the branches, rattling the red leaves like grasping hands.

Carved deep into the bone white wood, the weirwood’s eyes are black like a moonless night, a gaping bloody maw leaking sap. The wind rustling in the air almost sounds like a song, and Robb strains his ears, listening when—

A snap of pine. A rustle of leaves. The low huff of an animal. Robb turns and sees the beast on the other side of the black pool. A wolf—no, _his_ wolf.

Grey Wind had still been a pup when they departed Winterfell—the size of the average dog, yes, but a pup all the same when Robb pressed a kiss against his head and left him in the care of the kennel master. The creature that stands before him now is nearly the size of a war horse, large and lean with matted grey fur. His eyes are the same, Robb thinks, golden and clever, not the eyes of an ordinary beast.

Blood stains his muzzle, his teeth. Grey Wind licks at his fur and picks up a small pale and dark object in his mouth. The direwolf pads quietly around the unnaturally still black pool and drops it at Robb’s feet. It’s someone’s head, he realizes, as Grey Wind presses a cool snout against his hair, licking a warm stripe up the side of his face.

Black hair, white skin. Full lips. Lifeless, pale grey eyes, an unnatural color. Robb blinks down at it uncertainly. The flesh of the neck is rough and jagged—this was no neat beheading.

“What have you brought me, boy,” Robb asks, curling a hand into Grey Wind’s fur. They stand at eye level now, yellow meeting blue. His direwolf growls, but the sound almost sounds pleased, proud.

“A sacrifice,” something answers. The voice is strange, creaking like wood, breathy like the wind, old and aged. It echoes all around the godswood, and Robb can’t pinpoint the sound until Grey Wind whines at something behind him, ears pressed flat against his skull. 

He turns back towards the heart tree. A hundred crows nestle in the branches, black and red and white. Robb tightens his fingers into Grey Wind’s fur as he faces the weirwood, meeting its bloody eyes.

“A sacrifice,” Robb starts. “For who?”

“For you. For us,” the sound of it echoes in Robb’s skull, booming and crashing, soft and whispering, high and low. It’s deafening but soundless, and for a moment it feels like his head will explode from the pressure. The crows are screaming. “Awaken, wolf.”

Robb jolts awake with a gasp, pitching upward in a tangle of sea-foam silk and satin. The world spins, and the dull ache in his chest erupts into fresh flame, burning at his skin. As fast as he sat up, a pair of steady hands roughly shove him back down against the sheets as a shadow looms over him. His vision clears; Theon leans over him, half on the bed, dark hair falling into his eyes, nose nearly brushing against Robb’s. His eyes are furious, glowing with anger in the lamplight. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“What?” Robb manages stupidly, sucking in a sharp breath as his chest throbs with pain.

Theon rocks back into a chair, huffing, and Robb is sorry for the loss of pressure, the grounding touch of his hands, as his chest aches. Sitting up so quickly had been a mistake, even if Robb hadn’t been awake to stop himself. His chest is wrapped tight in linen bandages, with a splotch of dark blood on the right of his sternum, slowly seeping through the cloth. It aches when he breathes, torn muscles spasming around the wound.

“I was shot.”

“Obviously,” Theon bites, leaning back into an ornate, tall-backed chair, stretching his legs apart. He kicks one foot up to rest atop his desk, and fixes Robb with a glare. “You nearly died.”

Robb shifts against the sheets, staring at the ceiling and hisses. “Well, I suppose it is fortunate that I survived.”

“Is there anything you have to say for yourself?” Sharp. An angry tone.

“My apologies if my death would have inconvenienced you,” Robb snips. Why is he so angry?

“Inconvenience? I can’t ransom you for information if you’re _dead._ All my plans would have—!”

“You wouldn’t be _able_ to ransom me if _you_ were dead.”

Silence. He turns his head and Theon is wide-eyed, brows raised high into his hairline. “I wouldn’t have died,” he says after a moment.

“Yes, you would have,” Robb sputters. “The man had a clear shot, and you hadn’t even noticed him. One shot and you would—.”

Theon is laughing, surprisingly uproarious, head thrown back to reveal the skin of his throat. Robb’s eyes linger on the exposed stretch of his neck for a moment too long, and he forces himself to look away. It must be the pain, Robb thinks. A lingering residue of delirium from his dream. The sound of Theon’s laughter does not seem cruel, but something hesitant and ugly curls around the wound in Robb’s chest regardless.

“Are you telling me,” Theon finally manages, breathless. “That you nearly died to save _me_? Your captor? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

When it’s put like that, it does sound incredibly stupid. Robb chews on the inside of his mouth as reality comes crashing down around him. He should have just surrendered. Even if the Florents hadn’t believed him, they could have at least been persuaded to take him as a prisoner and find proof of his identity later.

“Perhaps I should have let you die then,” Robb swallows down bitterness and clenches at the satin fabric of the bedsheets.

Theon’s face falls into some strange expression Robb’s never seen before. “Don’t be like that,” he says lightly. “I do appreciate being alive.”

“Odd way to say thank you,” Robb immediately feels childish, hungry for recognition. He watches Theon smile, sharp and slow.

“Thank you kindly, Robb,” he says, half-sung and too sweet. “How will I ever be able to repay you?”

“I hate you.”

He doesn’t mean it, says it half-hearted at best. Theon seems to know it too, for the pirate leans back, smug with delight, and replies, “A shame. I’m quite fond of you, Stark.”

Between the pain in his chest and the lingering softness of sleep, Robb doesn’t have the energy to dissect the meaning of that statement. He instead decides to look anywhere except at Theon, glancing around the cabin. In the darkness, the oil lamp casts strange shadows on the walls like the reflection of the sun on water. The last time he was here, Robb spent the night tied up against the beam in the center of the room.

At least this time, he’s in the bed.

The cabin hasn’t changed too much: books and scrolls piled on the shelves, strange trinkets forged from steel and carved from precious stones. He’s familiar enough with Theon now to recognize the little traces of his presence in the room. The coat slung over a chair, a pile of loose rings, the cleaning kit for his pistol, boots kicked off by the door.

On the desk, there’s a pile of torn linen, stained with blood, sharp tools soaking in a pot of water. Robb assumes it must be the ripped remains of his shirt, the one he wore when he was still in King’s Landing.

“How long was I out?”

“Not terribly long,” Theon says, picking at his nails. “Half a day or so. I imagine it’ll be dawn soon.”

“My apologies for robbing you of your bed for the night, I can head back to the hold,” Robb starts, slowly attempting to push himself up on his elbow. Burning like the sun, his chest throbs. A hand descends on his shoulder and pushes him back down against the mattress with soft thump.

Theon leans over him. With his back turned to the oil lamp, his face is cast in dark shadow, the piercings in his ear glowing a warm gold. “Unfortunately, things won’t be that simple,” he begins. “Gevin wants you to stay on solid ground, so to speak, and that means keeping you flat and still. A hammock is like to rip the hole in your chest back open, so you’ll have to be consigned to my cabin for the time being.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know,” Theon shrugs. “You can’t walk as it is now, so I presume at least a week of strict bedrest before we think about moving you elsewhere.”

“A week? What am I to do for seven days?”

“Could be longer,” a smirk. “Don’t fret, Stark. I’ll have Wex keep you company.”

“And where will you sleep?”

“In the hold, with everyone else,” Theon says. “It’s been too long since I’ve had to put up with Vickon’s sleeptalking.”

He crosses the cabin and lingers in the doorway, shoulder pressed up against the siding. “You should rest. Helps you heal.”

“I’m not tired,” Robb says, like a child.

“If you say so,” Theon hums. He slips out of the cabin silently, and Robb is asleep before the door clicks closed.

When he wakes again, Wex is there.

The cabin boy is perched up on the desk like some kind of terrifying sea bird. Robb jolts when he sees him, a hot flash of fear burning against the bandages, and he opens his mouth in a silent cackle. The pose does not look comfortable, limbs scrunched up awkwardly—he must have been deliberately waiting like that to scare him.

“Very funny,” Robb says.

_I know it was,_ Wex raises an eyebrow and slides down from his perch, a bowl of water and fresh linen in his arms. He presses a finger into the stiff bandages wrapped against his chest, _I’m glad you aren’t dead,_ his eyes say. No—Robb’s being too kind. _I can’t believe you were enough of an idiot to get yourself shot,_ that feels more like something the little wretch would say.

Slowly, Wex peels the bandages away from his skin. The linen is tacky with blood, sticking stubbornly against his chest. He gives a Robb a look that seems genuinely apologetic before he roughly rips it off in one motion.

Robb sucks in a sharp breath, hissing through his teeth. The numb pain shudders through his chest like a bolt of lightning across the sky, radiating around his sternum. When he can open his eyes again, he glances down to the spot of skin Wex is cleaning with a warm rag.

The wound itself is quite small, a little hole closed with thick stiches perhaps an inch or two to the left of his sternum. What is of more concern is the bruise surrounding it, larger than a hand. The skin has taken on a purple color, aggravated reds and melancholy yellows. It does not seem to be infected, just fresh. A little bit of blood wells up around the stiches as Wex begins to redress the wound.

He has steady hands, calloused fingers working quickly. The cabin boy has obviously done this before, as he does not jump or jolt when the door slams open and Vickon runs in breathless.

“Robb!” He shouts, blue eyes shining. “You’re alive!”

For half a heartbeat, Robb thinks the younger Botley is going to throw himself onto the bed, when Harlon bursts in after his brother seizes him by the back of his collar. “Can’t you see Wex is changing his bandages. Fuck off and sit down.”

Vickon drags the chair over to Robb’s bedside, and Wex kicks at his ankles as he settles. Harlon leans his elbows over the back of it, looming over his brother like an ominous shadow. He catches Robb’s gaze and mouths a quiet, _hello._

All three of them look well, having escaped the battle relatively unscathed. Harlon has a long cut above his brow, a bruise blooms over Wex’s jaw, and Vickon has a split lip, which grins at Robb eagerly.

“Look!” The younger Botley tugs down the collar of his shirt to reveal his own bloodstained bandages. His shoulder is wrapped up, and Vickon bears the wound with pride. “The greenlanders got me pretty bad too!”

Wex, crossing a bandage over Robb’s shoulder, loosely gestures between the two of them with his free hand. _At least you didn’t have the audacity to almost die, Botley_ , he scrunches up his nose.

“Robb got the worst of it,” Harlon says. “Apart from poor Tod.”

Todric, broken open like a bottle of wine and leaking viscera all over the hold. “What did you—,” Robb starts, trying not to retch. “His body.”

“We sent him to our god and poured out a skein of wine in his honor.”

“He’ll feast with his ancestors,” Vickon adds, somber. “Dying at sea is a lucky death.”

Harlon gives Robb a long look. “When you’re back on your feet, I’ll take you up to the deck and you can pay your respects.”

“I’d like that,” Robb says. The older Botley nods.

With a quick knot, Wex finishes with the wound, holding a bowl of bloody bandages that need to be washed. He pats Robb on his chest, and smiles. _Glad you aren’t dead,_ or maybe, _if I have to change your bandages again, I am going to kill you myself._

It really is so difficult to tell with him.

Wex leaves the cabin with a bow, sloshing a bit of bloody water on the floor. Harlon nudges his brother, who jumps to his feet and follows after him.

“Robb!” Vickon says, paused in the doorway. “Get back on your feet soon! We need you on deck.”

“Will do,” Robb laughs, and the younger Botley vanishes out the door. “I think your brother is the happiest person on this crew to see me alive.”

Almost immediately, Harlon drops into the chair with a sigh. “Oh no, after that stunt in battle, even Dagmer has been singing your praises. He’s going to be very strange with you, just warning you now.”

“You don’t seem particularly overjoyed.”

Harlon frowns. “I am elated to see that you have survived, genuinely.” He pauses, kicking one leg over the other. “But there’s a bit of a problem.”

“A problem?”

“Stygg and Urzen, to be specific. Are trying to rile up the crew.”

“Why?”

“They blame Todric’s death on Theon. And our dear captain is still refusing to inform us where exactly we are sailing to, which isn’t helping matters.”

Robb swallows. “And where do you stand on this?”

“I would die for Theon, even as irritated with him as I am at the moment” Harlon says it with such conviction, deadly serious. “And, so would you, it seems.”

“How serious is it?”

“Stygg and Urzen have a good shot with convincing Rymolf—he’s Victarion’s man, not Theon’s. Maybe Cadwyl if Theon keeps this up much longer,” Harlon sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It wouldn’t be like this if he just _told_ us what he’s planning. S’not the way we do things.”

“Are you asking for my help?”

“You won’t be bedridden forever; we need every man we can get—the boys aren’t allowed to get involved until they’re older.”

“Alright,” Robb’s mouth is suddenly very dry. “I’ll stand with you, if it comes to that.”

Harlon’s face splits into a wide smile. “You’re a damn good man, Snow. I should get back to my station,” he stands and makes to move towards the door, before pausing. “If you hear anything from Theon—where he’s charting us, literally anything, let me know, yeah?”

Robb squints at him, and says, “I’ll keep an ear out.”

“Great,” and then the door closes.

It’s only then in the silence when Robb realizes that he has nothing to do but lay there. It has to be somewhere past mid-morning, inching towards early afternoon if the way the sun slants through the windows is to be trusted. Today’s weather is warm, bright and clear and blue, sun glittering through the glass.

And that is how Robb spends his days, long hours of dreamless sleep and boredom, broken up by a rotating cast of visitors. Vickon comes down each day at noon to eat his lunch and chatter away, legs kicked up onto the bed. Wex changes his bandages and they make faces at each other, laughing. Harlon takes some meals with him or comes down simply to complain to someone unable to escape. Old Maron sits at his bedside and tells him old ironborn legends to pass the time, how the Grey King slew Nagga and built a castle from its bones. Of mysterious mermaids, and sirens dragging men down to meet the Drowned God. On one notable occasion Cadwyl came below deck, sat silently across from Robb the entire hour he was there, carving a sea bird from a chunk of driftwood. When he had finished, he very slowly pressed it into Robb’s hands and left without saying a word.

But it is Theon who visits the most, more often than he likely should be. He pops in to grab a fresh set of clothes, sometimes with Dagmer or Harlon at his heels. Other times, alone. He takes an occasional meal with him, plate balanced precariously on his knees. He reads to Robb when the latter manages to convince him, voice steady and smooth. Lit by warm sunlight, long fingers slowly turning the pages, hair falling into his face. Robb could listen to him all day, and he does until Gevin, eyes unnaturally large behind his spectacles, finally informs Robb that he can get back to his feet.

He’s still a bit unsteady, a little too short of breath, as his body adjusts to movement once more. Halfway up the stairs to the deck, Harlon and Wex have to support most his weight to the top.

“You know, it’s bad luck to spend so much time without looking at the sea,” Harlon says, somewhere beneath Robb’s arm.

“Is it?” Robb replies. It took him eighteen years to see the ocean for the first time, and he was just fine.

Well, he is in this situation now. Maybe that’s nearly two decades of bad luck catching up with him.

“Our father said he once knew a man,” Vickon starts, at the top of the stairs. “who swore he’d never look at the sea again, and the Drowned God struck him blind.”

“That’s not how it went!”

“Huh,” Robb says. “Must be hard to not look at the ocean when you live on an island.”

“Oh, shut it.”

They emerge from below deck. It’s not the most ideal weather—in fact, it’s quite an ugly sight. A terrible shadow brews on the horizon. Wrathful clouds twist ominously in the sky, swirling like ink. As blue turns to overcast grey, the black storm inches closer. Jagged strips of lightning flash in the distance, and Robb counts the heartbeats until thunder booms out over the water.

Every member of the crew is on deck today, taking down each and every sail in a charged, frantic hush. Even Theon is up in the rigging, helping Maron take down the forecourse. He darts over the mast with a confident ease, bare feet pressed against wood. The water is already unruly, crashing into the ship loudly. Only one bad wave and Theon would plummet from the mast and splatter against the deck like rain.

“Looks like a bad storm.”

“It’ll be an ugly one for sure,” Harlon says, and then, calling over the wind, “Cleftjaw! Keep an eye on our greenlander for me?”

“ _What_ are you doing?” Robb hisses. “You can’t leave me with him.”

Harlon grins like a traitor. “We’ve got to help the others take the sails down. Don’t worry, the old man will take good care of you.”

Wex slides out from beneath Robb’s arm and scurries away as Harlon steps away and pushes Robb forward roughly, laughing. He nearly topples over from the lack of support, and when he finally straightens back up, Dagmer Cleftjaw is looming over him.

“Finally out of bed, boy? Took you long enough.” 

“It’s not every day you get shot,” Robb says, trying to manage a smile.

Dagmer gives him a long look, before the four folds of his mouth gape open in a grin. He claps one heavy hand on Robb’s shoulder, pushing him forward a few steps. “Aye, and not every man would be willing to die for his captain.”

_Theon is not my captain,_ Robb thinks. _He’s my captor._ And yet, something in Dagmer’s gaze keeps his mouth shut.

“You’ve proved yourself a valued member of the crew,” he continues. “I will not forget it.”

“Thank you,” Robb says, oddly sincere. Dagmer’s smile suddenly seems sweeter with the brightness in his eyes.

They stand there by the railing, gazing out at the open sea. Somewhere, resting on the bottom, all the dead Florents and Todric’s bloated corpse are being eaten away by fish, torn apart by crabs and other strange creatures.

He tries to imagine Todric in some underwater hall, all blue and green, drinking his fill as mermaids attend to him. But the image warps, the mermaids grow fangs, eyes milk white, supping on his entrails.

With a dull clatter, the canvas comes crashing down to the deck and Robb jolts back to the deck. All the men come flying down from the rigging, plummeting to the deck on ropes and pulleys. Theon lands with a quiet grace, like a cat with uncanny balance.

“Snow!” He calls. His shirt is soaked through with sweat, and Robb has to drag his eyes up to his face. “Have it in you to lend a hand?”

“Is that an order?” Robb calls back, walking over to him dutifully.

“Only if it has to be.”

Together with the rest of the men, they fold up the canvas and bring them below the hold, stacking them in tall piles that nearly reach to the ceiling. The storm is closer now. Wind whistles a bit louder, searching for sails that are no longer there. Rising with the waves, the floor starts to pitch and shift as the crew clamor their way to the galley and burst open a cask of ale, which froths to the floor like crested water.

“I would like to propose a toast,” Theon says, standing atop a table. He gestures towards him with his mug, black eyes bright over the rim as he winks. “To our bastard Robb Snow, who has finally returned to us.”

The room erupts into low cheers. Harlon swings an arm around Robb’s neck and laughs. “And who survived his first battle!”

“What is dead,” Dagmer shouts, voice lower than thunder. “May never die!”

“But rises again, harder and stronger!”

Stygg, despite his stoic anger on the deck, manages to be coaxed into song. His voice rings loud and true, clear over the sounds of the storm brewing outside, as he launches into a rendition of _When Willum’s Wife Was Wet._ Dagmer pulls Theon down from the table, where Rymolf and Maron corner him into conversation. Robb catches his eyes, and Greyjoy gives him a smirk, shrugging, and drinks deep from his cup.

At his side, Harlon sings along—badly—to Stygg’s song, as Cadywl and Urzen set up a game of cards. Wex and Vickon nurse their drinks and spin knives between their fingers to the beat.

Robb nurses his cup of ale, still not used to the unpleasant taste of ironborn alcohol and tries to sort through the tight feeling in his chest. Somewhere between joy and guilt and grief. Like he shouldn’t really be here at all.

The more he drinks, the worse he feels, until Harlon—two to three cups in by now—splits off from Stygg and makes his way back to Robb’s side.

“You look dead on your feet,” he whispers. His face is flushed, eyes bright.

“Just a bit.”

“Off to bed with you then,” he shoos at him. “No one will mind, except me, of course.”

Robb stands. “Ah, so no one important will care.”

“Piss off, you bloody bastard,” Harlon laughs. “Go rest so that wound in your chest finally fucking closes and we can put you back to work.”

Very slowly, Robb makes his way from the galley back to Theon’s cabin. The halls are dark from the storm, and he walks with one hand pressed against the walls, keeping his balance as the ship pitches. When he arrives at the room, Robb immediately shrugs off his shirt and topples into the bed.

He must fall asleep, or at least drifts somewhere in between wakefulness and dreaming, for the storm is properly raging when the door to the cabin opens with a crash of thunder. In the darkness, Robb can see a figure outlined in the doorway, clutching onto the frame as the ship rolls with a rough wave.

“Theon?”

“Oh, Robb.” He stumbles a bit, shutting the door behind him and leaning against the wood. “I forgot you were in here.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Of course I am,” he says, crashing into the hard edge of his desk. At least he has the dignity to not deny it, as Theon descends into a series of furious swears. “If I am to meet my god tonight, I’d prefer to be in a good mood.”

Robb sighs through his nose. “We’re not going to die.”

Theon presses a finger against his cheek thoughtfully. “You never know with the Storm God. Tonight may be the perfect time to send another Greyjoy down to the bottom of the sea.”

“You are remarkably superstitious.”

“Stark, you worship trees.”

“I pray to the Seven, as well.”

“Even worse,” Theon says, slumping to the floor. All his limbs are strung out, spreadeagled flat against the deck. “Do you mind if I stay here? Risking the stairs down to the hold doesn’t sound very pleasant.”

“It’s your cabin.”

“True!” Theon splays himself out on the floor, ankles crossed, and his sash bunched up beneath his head.

As he fidgets on the ground, Robb busies himself and listens to the sound of the storm. Rain clatters against the deck, echoing through planks of solid, sturdy wood. Glass rattles in its frames, shaken by the wind. Every now and then, the room flashes bright with lightning, casting everything in strange, sharp shadows. The thunder follows afterward, earth-shatteringly loud and at intervals so irregular it startles you each time.

The waves are still rough, and the ship rolls with them, tilting up at steep angles and plunging back down with a crash. Theon must have had the foresight to tuck away his fragile valuables, as only books and bits of paper tumble from the shelves. A large chest at the foot of the bed keeps sliding loudly against the planking, before thumping back against the wall.

Built into the walls, the bed is relatively still. All Robb feels is the brief sensation of vertigo, a feeling of weightlessness when the ship plummets back down from the crest of a tall wave. Almost like a lull, being strangely rocked to sleep by the sea in all her fickle wrath.

On the floor, Theon does not seem like he would agree. He slides against the planking with each pitch. The deck chair topples over onto his legs with a clatter. A rough wave cracks his head against the ground. Louder and louder, Theon curses and swears, scrabbling on the floor like a crab on sand, until his voice rises in a fever pitch so vulgar that Robb—who is trying to sleep, thank you—can’t ignore.

“Are you alright?”

“What the fuck do you think, Stark? Of course I’m not alright with all this blasted _shit,_ ” there’s a crack of wood, like Theon just kicked at his desk. “Crashing into me!”

For a moment, Robb tries to run through the politest way to ask him to be quiet or crawl back down to the hold. And then, before his brain can catch up to his mouth, “If it’ll make you be quiet,” Robb says, voice feeling too loud in the darkness. “We can share the bed.”

“Inviting me into my own bed?” Robb can hear the smirk in his voice as Theon laughs. “Never thought you’d be so bold about it.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Theon climbs to his feet, swaying in the shadows, and throws himself onto the mattress. His boots fall to the floor with a quiet thud. “That’s a pity,” he says, throwing an arm over Robb’s chest with all the casual ease in the world. His palm is pressed up against his bandages, burning like a firebrand.

A pity?

Robb lays there and tries to process that and comes to the conclusion that he’s dying again. It certainly feels the same way. The world has slowed down. He can feel each slow exhale of Theon’s breath. If he turned his head, they would be close enough to kiss. His chest is too tight, too hot, the arm slung over it constrictive. With each breath, it feels like his stitches are going to burst back open, so Robb can spurt blood all over them and die for Theon all over again.

Theon’s breathing has gone deep and slow, softly fanning over the soft skin of Robb’s jaw. He spends the rest of the night staring resolutely at dark grooves of the ceiling before he too, inevitably falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW! Sorry for the long wait! It's been nearly a month...please blame my absence on my midterms. Also, this chapter was just very hard to write for some reason. I was stuck with the pacing for a long time, so I hope you all enjoy! Hope to have the next chapter out by next week, or in two weeks at the latest. I'm hoping I've gotten past that lull in inspiration. 
> 
> And, as always: the meta.
> 
> 1\. This chapters song is [ What the Water Gave Me ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=am6rArVPip8) by Florence and the Machine. This chapter’s quote is from Richard Silken…who does beautiful work. Definitely check him out, will be planning to steal future fic titles from his stuff. 
> 
> 2\. Another dream sequence from your truly. I have a lot of fun writing them...I wonder who that head belongs to! 
> 
> 3\. Theon and Robb....the flirtation begins? Is that what you'd call scolding someone for nearly dying on you and then constantly checking each other out? Who. Knows. This slow burn is really really slow, haha. My bad. 
> 
> 4\. Originally, I was going to write out individual scenes where each member of the crew visits Robb, but I was already pushing 3000 words and wasn't yet halfway through, so I mashed them all into one paragraph. There was supposed to be a scene with Stygg and Urzen as well, but that got cut for my own sake. 
> 
> Not a lot of author insights this week, hopefully will have more for the next! 
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and comments! I hope you all have a happy weekend.


	9. viii. hurricane drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw emetophobia. this chapter contains one vomiting scene at the very end of the chapter.

I brace myself, because I know it’s going to hurt.

But I like to think at least things can’t get any worse.

Florence and the Machine, _Hurricane Drunk_

When Robb wakes, it is warm. Too warm, in fact. The sun is bright against his eyelids, and he pushes his head back into the sheets despite the sweat. A burning weight is pressing down on his chest, another on his shoulder. He shifts and there’s a low groan as something burrows into Robb’s neck.

His eyes fly open. The sunlight momentarily blinds him, but once he blinks away the white spots, Theon is there, dominating his view. His head is tucked into the space between Robb’s neck and shoulder. He sleeps on his stomach, one hand splayed out over the bandages on his chest.

Robb freezes faster than water in winter, mutely staring at the crown of Theon’s head. His dark hair spills like ink over the sheets, tickling the skin of Robb’s neck. Smoothed by sleep, his face is oddly peaceful. Still. No smug smirk or clever grin, no incredulous brows, or a sarcastic laugh. He looks young, oddly pensive, lips twisted into a frown in his slumber. In his waking hours, he’s never this expressionless. Always smiling, cruelly, sweetly, mockingly, and very rarely, genuinely. It’s a sight Robb has unknowingly associated with him, and it feels oddly sacred to see him at his most vulnerable.

He takes a deep breath, and the movement must wake him for Theon’s black eyes snap open. Robb blinks. His face stays oddly still—no signature grin—as he slowly leans up. His hair spills over Robb’s face like a curtain, brushing the skin. The silence is unsettling, something strange aches beneath Robb’s bandages. He leans closer and—

A loud knock on the cabin door. “Captain? Are you in there? Robb jolts back and winces, as Theon lazily props himself up on his elbow.

“What is it?”

Maron’s voice echoes oddly through the wood. “We’ve spotted land, sir. Looks to be Oldtown.”

“Take down the black and make for port. Tell Harlon to raise the merchant flag, he knows the one.” Theon calls. “Dag? You there, too?”

A laugh. “Aye.”

“Take the rowboat ashore as soon as you can. Take Rymolf and Maron. You know where to go.”

“Will do, see you on deck, boy.”

There’s the sound of footsteps, and Theon rises from the bed as languidly as a cat, stretching in the morning sun. With a fluid movement, he tugs his shirt off and drops it against the floor, exposing the long, tan stretch of his back. Half-asleep, Robb counts the bones in his spine before he chokes and turns to face the wall.

Theon stands and the mattress shifts. The chest at the foot of the bed creaks open on its hinges, and there’s the rustling of cloth. Something else lands against the floor with a light thump.

“Come ashore with me,” Theon says.

“If you want?” The planking really is quite interesting, if you look at it long enough.

Robb can _hear_ the grin in his voice. “I do want. Have you ever been to Oldtown?”

This morning has felt a bit like a storm, and Robb is but a small ship, tossed back and forth on the waves without any rhyme or reason. “No,” he answers, mouth dry.

“Then this will be a treat. It’s a lovely city.”

Weight on the mattress again, as Theon settles back down. Boots thump against the wood. Robb slowly, slowly, slowly turns and finds the captain of the _Sea Bitch_ fully clothed and tugging on his shoes. Today he wears a cream shirt, with billowing three-quarter sleeves that end in a narrow cuff.

He stands and tugs his coat on, looking down at Robb. “Well, you ought to get up. I expect the boys will need you on deck soon.” A smile dances on his lips like he’s in on some private little joke. The grin feels more like a snarl, like Theon is a predator and Robb is his prey, patiently waiting to devour him whole.

Robb isn’t sure if he would terribly mind that, but then Theon spins on his heel and makes for the door. “I do hope,” he starts, half in the hallway. “That you slept well.” 

And then he’s gone. Robb briefly entertains the thought of chasing him down and—what? Throttle him? Something else entirely? Very reluctantly, Robb stands and searches for his boots, tossed about by the storm.

The weather today is clear and bright—the way it always is after a storm. Blue skies, cheerful water. A cloudless sky and a golden sun. It promises to be a hot day. In the distance, a large stain of a green coast on the horizon. Birds scream in the air, and thousands of white stone buildings dot the distant shore.

On the deck, Robb leans over the railing, squinting at some tall shape in the distant harbor. It appears to be a flaming sword, and then realizes it’s simply a tower of impossible heights, stabbing into the sky. House Hightower, his mind supplies. Their great keep doubles as a lighthouse, guiding ships to its plentiful harbor. 

Dagmer and the other older men are hoisting a rowboat into the water. Once they get close enough, they drop it into the sea and set off towards the shore as Robb gets swept up in the docking process. The canvas is secured up, coasting on their preexisting speed. The _Sea Bitch_ inches slowly into the harbor, deceptively innocent under its false colors. He tosses thick, coarse ropes down to Cadwyl, Stygg, and Urzen securing the ship to it’s moors.

Robb fixes a bowline knot before Theon appears once more, stepping down from the helm. Morning has passed into afternoon and the early signs of evening have arrived. The sun sits low on the horizon, and the blue of the sky has started to glow yellow and orange at the edges.

“Gevin,” Theon calls. “I’m going ashore.” Then, turning to Robb. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he answers.

Theon grins. “Alright, well keep up, will you?”

He sets off down the gangplank, Robb at his heels. The docks here are far busier than the ones Robb saw at Pyke. A cacophony of voices fills the air, foreign languages, accents both strange and familiar. For a moment, Robb thinks he hears the sound of northmen, before he forces himself to stay close to Theon’s side. Cargo flies through the air, children peddling oysters and ale, calling out in their high voices. Storefronts and trade houses line the docks and spill into the streets. The people here are dominated by honey brown eyes and curled hair, pink in their cheeks and mouths. There’s a surprising amount of green: trees planted along cobble streets, ivy growing up the walls, plants in the windows, and flowers blooming in window boxes. It’s not like the cool, muted green of a winter pine, but something warmer, with golden, rich undertones.

At a crossroads, Robb nearly slams into Dagmer, who frowns down at him. Rymolf audibly scoffs, hiding his laugh beneath his long beard. “Watch where you’re going, greenlander,” he says lightly. “Lest you run into someone less forgiving than I.”

“What luck,” Theon says, quickly pushing himself forward. “Do you have it?”

Dagmer presses something into Theon’s hands. His ugly face is split into a brilliant smile, indulgent and proud. “It’s all there. Everything we need, lad.”

“Your uncle would be impressed,” Rymolf says gruffly, crossing his arms. “If we make sail by tomorrow, we could catch in her three, four days.”

“Brilliant,” his voice is a bit breathless. Something genuine is on his face. Joy. Relief. Regardless, it’s the sweetest smile Robb’s ever seen on his handsome face. “That’s—I—tell the men I’ll share everything with them tomorrow. They deserve to know what I’m getting them into.”

“Good lad,” Dagmer says, ruffling Theon’s hair. It’s uncharacteristically intimate, and Theon swats at his hand in mock outrage. “Maron’s gone drinking. Said he’ll be back after supper.”

Theon grins. “If we see him, I’ll send him your regards,” he tugs on Robb’s arm and calls back over his shoulder, “We’ll be back after nightfall!”

“The lionstar?” Robb asks.

“Keep quiet, will you? Or half the city will know.”

They make their way through the cobbled streets of Oldtown. Theon must know where he is going, darting through the busy streets with ease and grace as Robb stumbles after him. They stop at a bar in a long, grimy alleyway. The sun is at such a low angle that the entire place is cast in shadow, torches already lit as if it were nighttime instead of early evening. Music faintly streams from the open doorway, some jaunty bright tune.

Once through the entrance, Robb realizes that the tavern is far less seedy and dangerous than he assumed. The interior is red, cherry wood and orange light. A roaring hearth crackles at the far-left wall. Roasting meat and fresh baked bread are being carried out of the kitchen by clean faced waitstaff in stained aprons. Herbs saturate the air, rosemary and saffron, rich peppers and tear-inducing spices.

The seats are full of patrons, sun-tanned fishermen and dusty blacksmiths, miners and farmworkers, even a few merchants eagerly awaiting their evening meal. More men swarm near the bar, carrying mugs and sloshing foam against the stone floor.

“So, why are we here?” Robb asks.

“I’m looking for someone,” Theon answers, craning his head to peer over the crowd. He pushes himself up on his toes, balancing himself against Robb’s shoulder. The touch burns through his shirt.

“Who?”

“An old friend. If it all goes well, he’ll be our ticket to a fat prize of gold and getting you back home. Ah, there he is. Keep close.”

Theon weaves through the crowd on nimble feet, coattails flying out behind him. He stops in front of a table in the far, darker corner of the tavern. A group of grimy men are gathered here, gambling and drinking. There is a serving girl, brow twisted into a nervous worry, carefully placing fresh ale on the table. One particularly nasty looking man tugs on her skirts, laughing as she placidly smiles.

At the center of the table, there sits a man. He has unnaturally pale skin for a sailor, broad nose twisted in ugly delight as he slaps down a winning flush of cards. A weather-worn leather coat strains against his broad, sloping shoulders, and a faded pink cravat is tucket up against his jaw. He looks oddly familiar, although Robb can’t tell place why.

Theon stops at his table, and grins, shouting over the din. “Thought I’d find you here!”

At the sound of his voice, the man’s head snaps up. Peeking out from a mop of dark curls, a single red earring shakes roughly at the sudden movement. Very slowly, his full lips spread into a wide grin, and he stands, rising to a frankly impressive height.

“Greyjoy!” He crows, spreading his arms wide. Theon rushes forward, laughing, and they grasp each other by the arms, swaying. “It’s been ages! Where have you been?”

“Oh, here and there,” Theon smiles. “You know how it is.”

They stand oddly close, caught in their own separate world. The stranger looks oddly pleased, fingers pressing tightly against the fabric of Theon’s coat. He opens his mouth to speak, leaning forward as if to whisper into Theon’s ear, when Robb, of course, decides to cough awkwardly. Theon jolts and jerks away from the stranger, making some abrupt, sharp sound that might be laughter.

“Ah yes, Robb,” he starts, gesturing towards the other man. “This is—”

The other man fixes Robb with his heavy gaze. While not an ugly man, he is no great beauty to write home about, but his eyes are perhaps the most unsettling thing about him. They’re the color of meat, the pale white flesh of fish when you cut it open, wriggling in his skull. “My name is Ramsay Snow,” he says, moving to take Robb’s hand in his own. His grip is painfully strong and cold from the silver rings that adorn his fingers. “I captain _The Flayed Man._ ”

His voice is distinctly familiar in its cadence, the round sound of his vowels. “I’m Robb. Robb Snow,” Robb says abruptly, before adding, “You’re from the north?”

“I am.” He turns his head. “Have a preference for bastards, do you Greyjoy?”

“You could say that,” Theon answers, maddeningly casual. “I need to speak with you.”

Ramsay waves his hand at the table, “You heard what he said, didn’t you? Scram.” The rest of the men vanish, scattering away to other parts of the bar and abandoning a collection of half-full mugs and playing cards. He moves to sit down at the bench, and Robb decides to sit at the other side of the table, keeping his distance. Ramsay grins at Robb as he sits. He has very sharp teeth.

“Have you heard the rumors about you recently?” Theon says, throwing his leg over the bench to sit at Ramsay’s side. He pulls an abandoned mug close, peers down at the liquid, and shrugs before throwing back a swig. “They’ve gotten increasingly fantastical.”

“Have they?”

“Oh, yes. Tell me, have you actually started sacrificing men to your tree gods under the full moon? Or sail with canvas sewn from human skin?”

“Human skin?” Ramsay echoes, picking at the dirt beneath his nails. “Using it for sails would be a waste of perfectly good material. Better used for shoes.”

Robb freezes. Theon laughs and Ramsay pauses, tilting his head like a dog and seemingly reveling in the sound. Strange eyes catch his gaze and Ramsay smiles. “That was a joke.”

“Of course,” Robb answers quietly. He searches for a cup of ale and spots the ones the serving girl had left, pulling it close. The way this is going, he’s going to need it.

“You have a proposition for me?”

Theon wipes at his mouth. “I do. I’m hunting a Lannister treasure galleon. Help me in taking it, and there’s a large prize in it for you.”

“Your father reject you again?”

“Fuck my father,” Theon says. “If he prefers two rotting corpses to his only living son, then so be it. Are you in?”

Ramsay takes a long drink, and then, leaning in, says, “I’m listening.”

As Theon starts to speak, it’s like Robb has slowly transformed into a ghost. Invisible, ignored. He sits and watches the way the pair of them lean into each other, shoulders pressed together. At one point, Theon flags down one of the waitstaff for a bottle of wine, kicking his leg up onto Ramsay’s lap. A pale, ring-adorned hand rests on his thigh. Robb glares at it balefully, downs his drink in one go, and drags two more half-full, lukewarm mugs over.

Perhaps an hour passes, maybe more, maybe less. The sun has disappeared completely, and the tavern is lit by warm fire. Robb has collected seven empty mugs, and realizes he’s finished all the ones at the table. He raises his hand to flag for more, and the movement is sluggish, as if his arm were underwater.

“Haven’t you had enough?”

“What?” Robb blinks.

Ramsay Snow waves the hand not resting on Theon’s leg at Robb’s spread of cups. “I said, haven’t you had enough?”

“Who are you to tell me what my limits are?” Robb bites. Something sick churns in his stomach, low in his chest. Hot and angry.

“Robb!” Theon sounds oddly like his mother when he had done something particularly ill-mannered. He quite admirably resists the urge to laugh and fails.

“Did you drink _all_ of those?”

Robb tilts his head and tries to remember. “I think so,” he decides on finally. Theon opens his mouth and clicks it closed, sighing.

“Shit, one of the Botley’s ought to be around here somewhere,” he continues, rising to his feet. His leg catches on the bench and Ramsay rests a hand on Theon’s hip to keep him balanced, and Robb is about to vomit into his drink from the sight. “I think I see Maron. He can bring you back to the ship.”

“Can’t you take me?” Robb says before he can stop himself.

“Robb,” Theon sighs, fingers splayed on the table. “I’m the middle of something important, I—.”

“Please.”

Theon’s mouth shuts quickly, jaw clenching. Robb watches him swallow, before he says. “Fine. Ramsay, do you mind?”

“We can finish this on my ship,” he says, rising to his impressive height.

_Why does he have to come?_ Robb thinks. _You’re going to his ship?_ Irrationally, panic rises to his mouth at the thought, sitting on the back of his tongue, bitter. He’ _s_ about to speak when Theon hauls him up by his collar and the world uncomfortably lurches to the side, shifting like water. Three Theons frown down at him, mouth twisted and wet with the remnants of red wine. What would it taste like?

“Ramsay,” he says, fishing out a handful of coins from the pouch on his belt. “For the tab, I’m going to get him outside.”

The other man nods, somehow managing to disappear into the crowd despite his imposing demeanor. Robb stumbles on his feet, the same way he did before he got his sea legs, and Theon exhales sharply, tugging him through the crowd.

They emerge into the cooler, fresh night air. The wind is a soft caress on the sweaty skin of Robb’s forehead. “Can you walk?”

“I think so,” Robb answers, leaning against the wall. Cobbled stone presses sharply into his back. He tests his weight on his left leg and it feels stable.

“Good, if I have to ask Ramsay to carry you, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Ramsay exits the tavern. “Hear the end of what?”

“Nothing,” a hand presses against his shoulder. “Get moving, Snow.”

Robb takes a step forward and nearly collapses flat on his face, falling towards Theon’s chest. A large hand fists into the back of his shirt, holding him upright. Ramsay frowns down at him, obviously irritated.

“He’s not usually like this,” he hears Theon say.

“I don’t particularly care what he’s usually like,” Ramsay shrugs, releasing him. “He’s a lightweight, though.”

Theon clicks his tongue. “I don’t think he really drinks.”

“Nope!” Robb says brightly. “My mother didn’t want me to become a drunkard. She finds it distasteful.”

He starts to walk and manages to stay upright, although Theon flutters like an overprotective mother hen in the corner of his eye. Thankfully, he does not manage to stumble, nor stoop so low as to require Ramsay’s unwanted aid again. One of his gods must be taking pity on him, for the streets are mercifully empty.

Ramsay is speaking in that strange loud soft voice of his, and Theon replies in low tones. Robb listens to the sound of his voice, rounded and rich, clipped with his ironborn accent, as he marches dutifully towards the dock where the _Sea Bitch_ is anchored.

Slowly, it comes into sight. The deck is quiet, one lone lantern burning near the helm like a guiding star. Robb walks up the gangplank, Theon at his heels.

“Do you have to go?”

“Yes,” Theon says, helping him over the railing, one warm hand clasped against his bicep. “The boys will take good care of you.”

Robb stumbles on the way down, and Theon steadies him with a disappointed sigh. When he straightens back up, the sound makes clarity descend on his shoulders like ice shoved down the back of his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” the words spill out like water, pooling on the deck and seeping through the floor. Robb stares resolutely at his scuffed and salt-worn boots, refusing to meet Theon’s agonizing eyes. “You shouldn’t have bothered to bring me back.”

“You asked me to.”

“You’re angry at me, aren’t you?”

Very suddenly, there are hands on his face. Theon’s fingers cradle the underside of his jaw, pressing into the skin as he tilts Robb’s face up to meet his eyes. He is impossibly close, eyes dark, piercings glowing in the moonlight. He is speaking—insistently, it seems, from the twist of his brow—but Robb can’t hear the sound, transfixed on the movement of his clever mouth.

Robb moves without thinking, lurching forward to crash their faces together. Immediately, the grip on his face gets a bit firmer, as he’s gently stopped in his tracks.

“You’re drunk, darling,” Theon says softly. His hands fall as he steps back, and Robb sways at the sudden lack of support. “Harlon!” There’s a crash below deck, the sound of someone running up the stairs. “Take care of Snow, will you?”

He moves back down the planks to the dock, where Ramsay still waits, as silent as a statue. His pale skin glows unnaturally in the moonlight, fish flesh eyes watching his movement. Some beast, foreign and familiar, rears up in Robb’s chest. For a moment, he hears the sound of Grey Wind’s growl as he imagines ripping out Ramsay’s throat.

“Drowned God below, Snow,” Harlon says. The moment passes and Robb realizes the growl is coming from his own chest. “You’re acting like a dog. What the hell did you drink?”

“Ale,” he answers.

“You got this messed up on ale?”

Theon and Ramsay make their way down the docks, heads bent together in quiet discussion. A hand hovers near the small of Theon’s back. Robb says, softly, “I had a lot of ale.”

“Come on,” Harlon steers Robb by his shoulders and leads him below the hold. “Vickon,” he calls softly into the darkness. “Grab a bucket, will you?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Cadwyl’s scratchy voice is even more rough as he lurches up from his hammock. “Is he hurt?”

“He’s drunk,” Harlon answers. “Going to be sick, most likely.”

“I’m _not_ going to be sick!”

“If he’s this bad now,” starts Urzen. Wex watches silently from his own hammock, eyes bright like an owl. “Imagine how bad it’ll be in the morning.”

Stygg stirs. “Shit, I’ll fetch the herbs we’d give to Tod. It’ll help some.”

“If he’s able to keep it down, maybe,” Harlon says dryly.

“Where’s the captain?”

“He brought him back. Off with the other Snow.”

Theon. Ramsay. The thought of them causes his stomach to roil. Robb groans and promptly leans forward and vomits into a bucket that appears suddenly between his legs. His throat burns as the bitter, acidic taste of ale comes back up, splattering into the bucket with chunks of half-digested hardtack. The smell assaults his nose as he gasps for air, choking.

“Oh, Robb,” Vickon says quietly, somewhere beside him. Harlon’s hands are steady on his shoulders as Robb retches again. He’s never felt more pitiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly didn't think I'd get this out this week, so it's up early as a surprise! I wanted to thank everyone who left comments, I'm so sorry for leaving you all hanging for so long! Updates should be pretty regular, although I will be taking a week after next interlude, which is scheduled for chapter 11. 
> 
> Some logistical notes. I've added three more chapters to this fic, so we are now sitting at 24. To map that out, that's the prologue, Part 1 (Ch. 1-5), Sansa's interlude, Part 2 (Ch. 6-10), Interlude 2, Part 3 (Ch 11-15), Interlude 3, Part 4 (Ch. 16-20), and the Epilogue. I've also updated the tags. I plan to have a substantial tag update after Chapter 10 and Interlude 2, and then one last tag update after Interlude 3. 
> 
> Anyways! Here are the author notes!
> 
> 1\. Today's song is [ Hurricane Drunk ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SoHV229_DQM) by Florence and the Machine! Two weeks of Florence, her songs show up several more times in this fic. The quote is also a lyric from said song. 
> 
> 2\. Uh, oh. Ramsay. 
> 
> 3\. Ramsay obviously does not imply great things happening for parts of this fic, but I will go on the record to say that this isn't a torture porn fic, whatever he gets up to will be entirely off screen. This fic is supposed to be a happy ending for Throbb and it WILL be I assure you. 
> 
> 4\. Anyways, guess what historical pirate Ramsay is based off in this fic. 
> 
> 5\. Once again, the slow burn is so slow. Once again, the boys are bogged down by consent issues. Don't take advantage of someone when they are drinking! I promise they kiss in chapter 10, haha. I've already written that scene.
> 
> 6\. Dagmer has retrieved the Lionstar schedule, which theoretically means that Robb _should_ have been sent on his way back to King's Landing. More on that in the next chapter. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading! The comments are so fun to read, especially to those of you that are speculating! I want to badly to confirm things for you, but I hope you enjoy watching the story unfold! Happy weekend to you all!


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